


The Early Hiatus: Part I

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 366 [8]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Archery, Bigotry & Prejudice, Birds, Caring, Deception, Disguise, Egypt, Embarrassment, England (Country), F/M, Family, Fan-fiction, Friendship, Golf, Hassocks, Hot, Inheritance, Justice, LARPing, London, Love, M/M, Minor Character Death, Murder, Persecution, Pining, Religion, Rubber Ducks, Rugby, Sheep, Slow Burn, Theft, Trains, Unrequited Love, Victorian, Wales, competitions, mining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2021-02-19 07:33:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 25,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22240852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: The Complete Cases Of Sherlock Holmes And John Watson. All 366 cases plus assorted interludes, hiatuses, codas &c.1883-1884. Holmes strives to avoid the city of his recent travails and embarks on what will be the Welsh leg of his Celtic tour, where he tries to not think about the foolish actions that cost him a good friend. Beyond Offa's Dyke he finds a deceptive Marshall, a keen constable, rubber-ducks, a big mountain, a thieving magpie, a lovelorn rugby-player, a deceiving 'victim' and a load of terrible ovine puns which lead to the improper use of church resources.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Elementary 366 [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1555741
Comments: 4
Kudos: 23





	1. Contents

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vignahara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vignahara/gifts), [vitabear](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vitabear/gifts).



> This series is completely written and will be updated daily until done.  
> All cases in the Early Hiatus are new, but for consistency are still marked ☼.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Contents page.

** 1883 **

**Interlude: Honour And Decency**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_Holmes explains some Victorian Values_

**Case 62: The Adventure Of The Golf Widow ☼**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_Death by golf-ball – but a keen young tyro suggests otherwise_

**Case 63: The Adventure Of The Big Mountain ☼**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_Holmes helps out a mining family whose lives may be at risk_

**Case 64: The Adventure Of The Surprising Strongbow ☼**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_Holmes is surprised by a bowman who requests his help_

**Case 65: The Adventure Of The Florida Feather-head ☼**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_An unusual thief leads to embarrassment for someone in Florida_

**Case 66: The Adventure Of The Rubber-Ducks ☼**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_An act of kindness ends in someone getting wet – and rich!_

**Case 67: The Adventure Of The Diamond Lock ☼**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_A sympathetic Holmes helps out a lovelorn rugby-player_

**Interlude: Hot!**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_John Hamish Watson is somewhat warm...._

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

** 1884 **

**Case 68: You Only Live Twice ☼**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_Holmes exposes a pair of charlatans in Denbighshire_

**Case 69: Sheep And The City ☼**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_Baa'd behaviour leads a baa'd man to meet a baa'd end (sorry)_

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	2. Interlude: Honour And Decency

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1883\. Holmes considers some staple things about Victorian life, along with arguably excessive punishments and horrible people called Lucifer who use deadly weapons to defend themselves.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

Before embarking on the first of the stories from my three long and painfully lonely years without Watson, I think it meet that I explain to readers of a later generation the logic behind my friend's decision to go to Egypt. (assuming that someone ever publishes my investigations from this dark time). I have mentioned before the absolute and overwhelming importance of honour in the Victorian family and, however unfair it undoubtedly was, how the actions of one bad relation could tarnish all around them. If the truth about Watson's vile ancestor had come out, he would as I said have been ruined.

However it should also be remembered that society was not so harsh as to not allow a way back for the likes of my friend. There was an acceptance that reparations could be made by 'working off' the crimes of an ancestor, as I have described elsewhere a modern form of penance. Hence even when as would certainly happen the newspapers uncovered the truth about Watson's traitorous grandfather, they would also note that he was 'putting things right' by his own service to the Nation. If they did not, then there was always the possibility of sending Mother round to 'explain' matters to them – _with her stories!_

Yes, one could say that that might be considered cruel and unusual punishment. So?

The 'trick’ would be to make sure that the scandal became public at the right time in the near future; not too soon as it would make Watson's flight look like..... well, a flight, but soon enough so that the ripples from the great revelation had time to fade, allowing him to return ‘cleansed’ of the actions of his villainous antecedent. I was not sure that I could cope with a longer absence, much as the whole sorry mess was partly my own damn fault. In the meantime I used my influence, small as it was, to deflect those journalists currently sniffing around my friend and his links to his vile grandfather Lieutenant Sacheverell Watson – God rot that villain's soul in hell!

I was, it has to be said, more than a little annoyed when Luke admitted to me that he had contacted Watson's cousin and suggested the stay in Egypt, even if it had been arguably the best (or least worst) option. Unwisely I let Luke know that I was angered and that I would be coming round to ask why, and the bastard only went and had Benji there, his Sad Face such that I could not be cross with my interfering relative in his presence. I told Luke later that it had been blatantly unfair of him to rely on someone with a piteous look to get his way or at least to avoid my righteous annoyance, and he dared to mutter something about Watson, bacon and mornings.

The villain! That was _quite_ different! And if Benji had not looked on the point of tears, I would have said so! But I would have my revenge – when my cousin promised to keep me updated on my friend during his absence, Benji promised to give him an extra large reward this coming weekend. Time for some lucky fruiterer to receive an extra-large box of supplies from a certain discreet London store…...

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	3. Case 62: The Adventure Of The Golf Widow ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1883\. In the first of the thirty-eight never before published cases from the Early Hiatus, the great detective travels back to beautiful eastern reaches of Wales where he and his friend were so recently happy. But treachery lurks even in this rural haven... Fore!

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

Much as I had wanted to leave London as soon as possible, there were two more ladies that I had to see after Miss St. Leger. The first was my future landlady Mrs. Hudson, to whom I had to explain the decidedly curious situation that both her new tenants would be paying for their rooms but not actually living in them. I might return once I had had some time to get myself together but Watson was already on his way to southern Egypt, where the political situation was not good. Not good at all.

It was cold in London that spring.

If the interview with Mrs. Hudson was difficult, the one with my own mother was absolutely mortifying. She admitted quite candidly that she and Lord Sheridan Hawke had, as she put it, 'done the horizontal tango' (a 'tango' is, I later found out, a type of dance from South America), but it had only been the once, she had not 'tangoed' with anyone else, the nobleman had been 'hung like a horse' (!) and now that I had brought it up she was reconsidering whether to write a story based on it (!!) because there was a lot more that she wanted to talk to me about that I would find quite....

I pleaded a reserved first-class compartment on a shortly-departing train, thanked my lucky stars that I had had the foresight to have arrived with my bag in tow, and fled! Never mind poor Watson’s ancestors; how the blazes had I turned out so normal and well-balanced with my own?

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

I had no real firm destination in mind except that I did not wish to be anywhere near London, which as I had not felt particularly drawn to my mother's native Ireland meant either Cornwall, Wales or Scotland. The first of these held no appeal because of the memories arising from our Scilly Isles adventure even though Mr. Carew was now safely in Hell, while I felt some fondness for Wales where we had had our encounter with Mr. Vanderbilt, and Watson had been so happy doing something as simple as just walking in the Marcher hills.....

I was clearly coming down with a cold.

My decision was seemingly made for me when I picked up the evening newspaper and read of a curious incident near a town called Builth Wells, which from the map provided lay some seventy miles south along the Cambrian Mountains from Llangynog and Mr. Vanderbilt's cottage. A local man had been killed on a golf course, struck by a golf ball which had caught him in the back of the neck (Watson had mentioned to me one time about a professor of his who kept reminding his students that this was one of the best points on a human body to murder someone, ghoulish as that was). It seemed that the Fates had decided for me; to rural Brecknockshire I would go.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

There were a number of ways to reach my destination and I chose to take the Great Western Railway to Hereford, the Midland to Three Cocks Junction (I was told by the stationmaster there that the name came from an old coaching-inn, and thought that Watson with his terrible sense of humour would have made some rude remark about it!), then finally the Cambrian up to Builth itself. It turned out to be a pleasant little town built where the River Orewin flows into the River Wye, and I found a small hotel there that suited my needs very well. Then I adjourned to the local police-station to see if they might allow me to look at what evidence they had.

Sergeant Owen Davies was, I thought, the typical Welshman; short, dark and instinctively untrusting of outsiders. I doubted that I would get much out of him, but on introducing myself his face suddenly changed.

“You and Doctor Watson were in that magazine, the 'Strand'”, he said. “The wife loves it; she is always down the library when it comes out. I hope he will publish some more stories soon, sir.”

That was not impossible. In our last painful conversation Watson had suggested that he might use his spare time in Egypt to write up drafts of several of our recent adventures, and I had given him a list of those that I deemed printable. He had promised to send the finished drafts to me and I would then pass them onto his publishers, Brett & Burke. It would also provide him with a nice extra income, although army doctors were not only well paid but, unlike his surgery work, the pay actually came on time. Plus my friend had also had that healthy signing-on bonus as well.

 _My friend._ And I had treated him dreadfully. I had been such a fool!

“I was curious about this case of a man killed by a golf ball”, I said, trying to shake off all those sad memories. “It is something that I have never heard of before.”

To my surprise the sergeant sighed heavily, then stepped back and opened the door that presumably led into the back room.

“Grimes!”

They do say that you know when you are getting on in years because policemen start to look younger. I was not yet thirty but the pimply constable who ambled into the area behind the desk looked fifteen at best, and was clearly fighting a losing battle against puberty if his pock-marked face was anything to go by.

“This young know-all is the fellow you want”, the sergeant said. “Grimes, take Mr. Holmes to the course and show him the scene of your murder.”

I baulked at that word.

“Murder?” I asked.

“The boy is sure the fellow was murdered”, the sergeant sighed. “You might have better luck with him than the rest of us. Good hunting, sir.”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Constable Dale Grimes took me to the western edge of the town where there was a bridge over the River Orewin. It was a pleasant spot, the housing ceasing abruptly at the crossing and a golf-course visible on the other side.

“That is the Two Counties Course, sir”, my guide said (his voice matched his stature and was almost inaudible). “Beyond Traitor's Bridge.”

I thought instinctively of Watson's grandfather. Before leaving London I had arranged with Miss St. Leger for her to monitor any particularly critical reports that might surface too soon. Showing that great minds think alike, she too had suggested bringing in Mother for those people who might be less than obliging and I had of course said…. that that was fine. I had also had the vague feeling that Miss St. Leger was preoccupied with something, but presumably she must have had some major investigation of her own that was ongoing.

“Why is it called that?” I asked.

“Llewellyn, the last great Welsh prince, was murdered there, sir”, he said. “Tricked into an ambush, then cut down by a group of English knights. Happened in 1282, it did.”

 _More warfare and betrayal,_ I thought with a sigh. The world had not changed that much over six centuries, more was the pity.

“Why is it called the Two Counties Course?” I asked.

“The northern part is in Radnorshire and the southern in Brecknock, sir”, he explained. “The Wye marks the border. That is why I think it was murder.”

I looked at him in confusion.

“Because...?” I prompted.

“Mr. Cadwallader was killed on the ninth hole, sir”, he said. “That is one of the two that crosses the border; tees in one county and greens in the other.”

Now I saw his point. It was like the St. Pancras case, a death occurring between two police areas. There was almost bound to be some friction over who led the investigation and that would only be to the benefit of the murderer. If there had even been a murder.

“Who killed him?” I asked.

That seemingly simple question seemed to flummox the boy for a moment.

“Mr. Jones who works in the town hall, he hit the ball sir”, he said. “But Mr. Cadwallader was killed by his wife.”

I stared at him. He seemed so confident in that statement.

“How can you know that?” I challenged. 

He smiled sourly.

“She hated golf, she hated him – and she had just taken out a new life-insurance policy with his name on it!”

All right, maybe he had _some_ reasons.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

There was a rickety footbridge across the Wye, so narrow that we had to wait for two golfers who were returning across it. It swayed as first they and then we crossed, but fortunately I did not end up in the fast-flowing river.

“Have you any other suspicions as to why it may have been murder?” I asked once we were safely in Radnorshire. “Your sergeant does not seem to think so.”

The boy snorted.

“He thinks that he has a chance with Mrs. Cadwallader's sister Charlotte, sir”, he said. “He does not; she is just leading him on to help her. Then there is the maths of the thing.”

“What maths?” I asked, puzzled.

“I did probability and statistics at school, sir”, he said. “I worked it out, although Doctor Llewellyn helped by giving me plans of the course with the distances. Even allowing for his not being spotted, the odds on a ball hitting the one part of the body that would kill a man were approximately three hundred and seventy-eight to one against.”

I almost felt sorry for the turf accountants in this town. Almost.

“Why was he not seen by Mr. Jones?” I wondered, looking at the river.

“Mr. Cadwallader always wore green, so he might have been hard to see”, the boy admitted (reluctantly, I thought). “But he was in the wrong place.”

I stared at him. This case was getting ever stranger!

“How do you mean, 'the wrong place'?” I asked.

“He was found just over there, sir”, the boy said, pointing to a spot about twenty feet away from the water's edge. “But he cannot have been there.”

“Evidently he was since that was where he fell”, I said. “Why could he not have been there'?”

He gestured to the river-bank next to where the body had been found.

“They grow the grass a bit longer on the bank to catch balls and prevent them from being lost in the river”, he said. “I did the maths on that too, and if the ball really had hit him on the back of the neck where the injury was, then it would have bounced off at an angle, lost momentum and have been stopped in the grass before it could have reached the river.”

“Are you saying that he was _not_ hit by a golf-ball?” I asked. “Surely the doctor checked where it had impacted?”

The constable scratched his head.

“Doctor Llewellyn says he was”, he said dubiously, “but I wondered.”

I thought for a moment.

“I can see one possibility”, I said at last, “but proving it will be difficult. I will need your help.”

“Of course, sir.”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

The young constable – incredibly, he turned out to be twenty-one! - quickly saw my reasoning and set off around town while I visited the local newspaper offices. They were surprised at my request but as usual a few sovereigns in the right pockets rendered them amenable and they agreed to print something which may have been borderline untrue. In the sense that the fast-flowing Wye was borderline wet.

Sergeant Davies was quite willing to 'loan' me his constable for a couple of days, although I suspected that was partly because he looked forward to time away from all that keenness. Constable Grimes and I then found a spot with a clear sight of both the front and back of Mrs. Cadwallader's house. If she reacted as I hoped to the article in the newspaper and to the stories that the constable had been busy spreading around the town, she would soon be on her travels. 

Even I was surprised however that she set off from her house the following morning, seemingly thinking that she did not need the cover of darkness for her nefarious actions. She was an unpleasant-looking woman of about forty-five years of age, and she had not made any attempt to stay unnoticed for what would be her final adventure (not that that would have saved her but it demonstrated her supreme over-confidence). Sure enough she headed down to the Wye, and I followed her having sent the constable off to fetch a certain gentleman. She stopped at the water's edge, looked around to make sure that there was no-one about, then opened the bag that she had been carrying and took out a small metal box. Then she threw it as far as she could into the river and it disappeared with a splash, after which she headed back to her house. 

Some little time later I saw two figures approaching, one by the river and the other in it. Constable Grimes was ambling along the bank and a short, dark fellow who I knew to be a Mr. Adam Jones was in a small, round boat that the constable had told me was called a coracle. They reached me and I directed Mr. Jones to where the box had disappeared; just fifteen minutes later I had it in my possession. The fisherman was suitably rewarded, then the constable and I departed back to the town.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Mrs. Caroline Cadwallader was very clearly _not_ pleased to have been 'invited into the police-station' that afternoon. She scowled mightily at both the constable and myself, and she had had few looks to start with.

“I do not have to answer any questions until my lawyer arrives from Brecon”, she said haughtily.

“We will of course wait for his arrival”, Sergeant Davies said politely. “We did however find an important piece of evidence in your husband's tragic demise, which was what we wanted to ask you about.”

She stared at him, clearly distrustful.

“What?” she asked rudely.

The sergeant smiled then reached down beside the table to bring up the same metal box that the woman had thrown in the river just hours earlier. Her face fell before she rallied.

“What is that?” she asked with mock disinterest.

“Something that we have two witnesses who say they saw you throw into the middle of the Wye this fine morning”, the sergeant grinned. “Now, I wonder _what_ can be inside it?”

He produced a hammer and chisel which made short work of the metal lock. Inside the box were several large stones, a catapult and a dagger.”

“Science is wonderful these days, madam”, I said conversationally. “No matter how much it is cleaned, there will always be tiny fragments of blood on a murder weapon.”

She shuddered, clearly realizing the game was up. Yet still she persisted.

“After being in a river?” she asked disdainfully. “You can see how wet they are even now.”

“I am sure that you cleaned the handle of the dagger that you thrust into your husband's neck very thoroughly”, I said. “You may care to know by the way that following the recovery of the box, Doctor Llewellyn had performed a thorough _post mortem_ on your husband's body. He discovered the entry wound where you had stabbed him, directly under where the golf ball hit. He also discovered traces of the soporific that you dosed him with that morning and which rendered him unable to defend himself from your villainous attack.”

“My husband died when he was hit by Mr. Jones's golf ball”, she insisted. “If anyone should be facing charges, it should be him.”

“That is not true”, I said. “You killed your husband in cold blood, then used the catapult to inflict an injury that made it look as if he had been killed by an Act of God. When you heard stories yesterday about the police looking for catapults and read the speculation in the local newspaper – both of which were arranged by me, by the way – you decided that you would have to dispose of your 'murder kit' as a matter of urgency.

She shot me a look of absolute hatred.

“Prove it!” she hissed.

“We can”, I shot back. “You wiped both the dagger and the base of the catapult where you held it while firing – but you forgot that in drawing back the part containing the golf-ball, your fingers pressed hard into the leather!”

“We _shall_ have some questions for you when your lawyer does get here”, the sergeant grinned. “Do not go anywhere!”

We left her to stew, the sergeant taking the box with us.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

“That was a clever lie, sir”, the constable said once we were away from the murderess.

“A lie?” the sergeant asked, clearly puzzled.

“As your colleague knows, leather is very poor at retaining fingerprints”, I said. “Well done for not reacting when I said that, constable.”

“Do you think that she will confess?” the sergeant asked.

“It depends on her lawyer”, I said. “He will likely advise her to bluff it out, or perhaps he may try to the defence of 'an abused wife driven to kill to protect herself'. Unfortunately for her she has a large number of servants at her house who, given how unpleasant she is, will I am sure send that line sinking faster than a metal box in the fast-flowing Wye!”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Postscriptum: Mrs. Cadwallader did indeed try the abused wife defence, but at her trial the prosecution called almost every servant in her house and as one they contradicted her on that. Fatally for her, the prosecution found the shopkeeper who had sold her sister the catapult used in the killing. A jury of twelve good men and true found her guilty and she was dispatched to hell where, hopefully, she had to endure even more of that tedious sport called golf! Her sister also served several years for her her part in the crime, which was all well and good.

And the pimply Constable Grimes later rose all the way to the ranks of superintendent. You really never could tell!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	4. Case 63: The Adventure Of The Big Mountain ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1883\. Why is a rich mine manager seemingly hell-bent on forcing a local family out of their humble little house? Holmes takes a geological Tumble and unearths the truth.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

After my success over the Cadwallader case in Builth Wells I still felt not the slightest inclination to return to London and all its reminders of my recent foolishness. Instead I initially headed back into Radnorshire and the town of Llandrindod Wells, which I found pleasant enough. I also took a carriage to the nearby town of Rhayader, which I found curious as I had been told that the name meant ‘waterfall’ in Welsh yet there was none. It turned out that it had been destroyed in the creation of a new bridge. Indeed this would turn out to be an omen for the area; nine years after my visiting it the nearby Elan Valley would be purchased by the Birmingham Water Corporation to provide water to that growing metropolis, and new lakes (but still no waterfall) created in the valley.

I then headed south again, changing back to the London & North Western’s line at Lechryd just north of Builth and eventually reaching Llandovery which I found pleasant enough. Leaving the iron road for a time I cut across country to Lampeter which small place my hotel in Llandovery had recommended to me, and it proved worthy of a deviation. Then it was the Great Western south to Pencader Junction where I changed to take in Newcastle Emlyn, which was a charming small town in the Teifi Valley. 

It was only when I reached Carmarthen that I remembered I knew someone in this area, Mr. Aneurin Peters whom we had assisted in The Adventure Of The Welsh Wordsmith. I therefore took the train back to Swansea and up to Resolven, where I was fortunate enough to catch him. Although when he asked me about Watson, I could not but blush. That ship had sailed and was now quite literally off a faraway land.

Heading back through Swansea I found it a tolerable place its size, and I enjoyed taking the train along the long sheltered bay to The Mumbles from where I sent Watson a postcard (he had mentioned the place to me before in some historical context† and I hoped that my visiting it might show that I was still thinking of him despite my stupid actions). Then I resumed my journey westwards again. I had noted on one of those detailed maps of the Great Western Railway and adjoining systems that another company ran trains from Llanelly and Burry Port up to a curiously-named place called Tumble, so decided to head there and see what it was like. Watson would have found that name.....

_I so missed him!_

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

I changed trains at a place called Burry Port and had to cross the small town to the separate station owned by something called the Llanelly & Mynydd Mawr Railway, which was clearly one of those industrial concerns that had decided to run a passenger railway on the side. Watson would doubtless have laughed at the company name; I had garnered enough Welsh by now to know that the wonderfully-sounding Mynydd Mawr actually translated as 'Big Mountain'!

My science was rather better than my foreign languages, and as I travelled up the valley I could see why this line had been built to somewhere with no town in sight. This was anthracite country, where they mined the very best coal that Wales had to offer. It was not unlike the talented Mr. Peters's Resolven in one aspect, the shared belief being that since miners worked in small spaces they could be housed in even smaller ones. It was pitiful, really.

Despite the terminus being proclaimed as 'Cwm Mawr for Tumble', the latter village turned out to lie about two miles away. I thought it a pity that a beautiful countryside had been turned to this. The villages seemed to blend into each other and there was hardly a scrap of colour to enliven the uniform greyness.

I had timed my arrival as early as possible in case there was nowhere for me to stay but fortunately the Victorian passion for hill-walking came to my rescue and there was a quite sizeable establishment north of the village for people who wished to walk up the 'Big Mountain'. I had no idea why this particular Victorian pastime was so popular – if one must walk for pleasure then why not at least choose somewhere flat? - but at least it served me well now.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

My room at the Mountain View Hotel (thankfully a better establishment than such an unimaginative name implied) was quite acceptable and I decided that I would stay there for at least a week before moving on. But my peace and quiet was not to last, for on the second day the maid who brought my morning coffee clearly had something on her mind, and having given me my morning pot of coffee she then just stared at me. There was clearly a problem, unless her batteries had just run out.

“Are you _the_ Mr. Sherlock Holmes?” she whispered, her voice awestruck.

I thought wryly to myself that surely there could be few if any people in the whole United Kingdom with my name, yet I was always asked that question as if there was a whole legion of us out there! One of these days I was bound to answer that question with, 'no, I am the 'other' Mr. Sherlock Holmes', just to see what sort of reaction that would elicit.

“I am the consulting detective Mr. Sherlock Holmes”, I said. “How may I be of assistance?”

She was silent for so long that I seriously began to wonder if her batteries _had_ run out, but finally she managed some words.

“I can't ask you something!”

I stared at her. _What?_

“You cannot ask me something?” I echoed, wondering if I had somehow misunderstood. She nodded fitfully.

“Mr. Gray says I can't”, she said.

Ah, that made more sense. Mr. Simon Gray was I knew the manager of this hotel, an unpleasant personage from what little that I had seen of him. He must had warned this girl not to bother me for some reason, which of course made me immediately want to know why he would have done such a thing. I thought quickly.

“Did Mr. Gray tell you to always answer visitors' questions?” I said.

She nodded.

“Well, I am _asking_ that you tell me what is bothering you”, I said. “I also promise not to tell Mr. Gray about it.”

She was clearly relieved by that and burst into words.

“We live up Chapel Street”, she said, “not far from the mine entrance. Dad and my three brothers all work down it; Mum cleans and looks after the two youngest. But Mr. Gray wants us all out.”

I was confused.

“What does the hotel owner have to do with the mine?” I asked.

“The other Mr. Gray”, she said, “his brother Mr. Jonathan. He owns the mine you see; he says they need the land the house is on.”

I reflected that for all we had left medieval England (and Wales) behind, the stranglehold exerted on communities by some families remained as strong as ever. More things that did not change, and again unfortunately.

“Have you nowhere else to go?” I asked.

“There's a place in the High Street”, she said, “but we'd never all fit. We can't afford two houses even with six wages coming in.”

“When does this Mr. Jonathan Gray wish for you to leave?” I asked.

“End of the month”, she said dolefully. “Real sudden it was; he only said last week that we were out. There's five other families in the run and they're out too; they were told on Monday.”

I saw something in that, but did not wish to raise the poor girl's hopes.

“You had better resume your duties”, I said. “I promise that I will look into this for you..... you have not told me your name yet?”

“Peel, sir”, she said. “Emily Peel.”

“Well Miss Peel, if you bring me a fresh pot of coffee every morning, I shall keep you informed of any developments.”

She looked greatly relieved and bustled away. I looked after her, frowning,

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

The problem in such a close community as this would be finding out information without alerting the unpleasant Grays, who would immediately take action against Miss Peel and her family. I therefore gave her a note the next day asking that her father meet me on the mountain come Sunday, which fortunately was only two days away.

Mr. Ewan Peel was very evidently a miner, although he had clearly striven to look his best for our meeting. I explained what his daughter had asked of me and he was clearly astonished that I was prepared to be involved.

“Your Doctor Watson makes it sound like you only do murders and the like, sir”, he said suspiciously.

I reflected sadly that it was no longer _my_ Doctor Watson. My own stupidity had seen to that.

“We actually do many cases together”, I said, “although he is out of the country just now on business. The vast bulk are small and mundane, of the sort that would never be published because readers would almost certainly find them boring. I never take cases on how great or small the client is but whether or not I think that I might be able to apply justice, even if that occasionally means a sometimes flexible interpretation of the law. I find your employer's sudden decision to force you out of your home strange, and I would like to investigate it.”

“Not much to look at, sir”, Mr. Peel said. “It's the property of the mine and Mr. Gray's to do with as he likes. When he told us to hop it come the end of the month, we knew we had to hop it.”

“I am curious about one thing”, I said. “Have you always lived at the cottage?”

“No sir”, he said. “We had a place further down Chapel Street but there was a fire next door and the whole lot had to be torn down. That was three years back and we all moved into the cottages where we are now.”

“Were they in use beforehand?” I asked.

“Mr. Gray's late son, named for his useless uncle who runs the hotel, had them, sir”, he said. “They were four cottages then; he lived in the end one and his sons lived in the other three. That was only temporary; they were doing something to the mine then so they needed to be on the spot as they say, When we moved in they turned the three into six by throwing up some new walls, but luckily not our place.”

I thought that that too seemed odd. Why not split that one particular cottage for two families as well? It was not like a mine-owner to pass up even a small opportunity to make extra money.

“Did young Mr. Gray and his father get on well with each other?” I asked.

He seemed to find that question highly amusing.

“Hated each other something fierce, sir”, he said. “The son did a lot of work planning for the new seam we're working now; he died just before we started. His bairns were still in their teens when he was taken; his widow took them to Swansea and her family. She and Mr. Gray did not get on.”

“How did young Mr. Gray die die?” I asked.

“Shot when he was in bed, sir. _With the mayor's wife!”_

I thought again. It still did not look good for the Peels, but maybe there was a sliver of hope.

“I need you to do something for me, sir”, I said. “Your family can help.”

“What's that, sir?” he asked.

“It may be the case - _may_ be – that there is something hidden in your cottage”, I said. “Given the size of the place hopefully it should not take long, but I need you to search everywhere. I think it possible that there may be a document somewhere that is important.”

He looked at me uncertainly.

“Why would you think that, sir?” he asked.

“For several reasons”, I said. “For one thing, I find it strange that Mr. Gray gave you notice to quit and only did the same to your neighbours a few days later. I suspect that I know the reason for that delay but if you can find that document then I will _know_.”

“But what about my family, sir?” he asked worriedly.

I knew what he was really asking. There was the danger, if not likelihood, of the Grays 'going after' his family if they realized what was afoot.

“If you find anything you must send to me at the hotel immediately”, I said. “If your daughter is not working at the time send one of your other children; I will send a message back and we will meet here or somewhere else without being seen to discuss what to do next.”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

I will not deny that I had high hopes for what Mr. Peel and his family might find, so I was bitterly disappointed when some three days later Emily brought up my coffee with the news that the search had yielded nothing. Her sad face made me fear that I was going to fail, although I had already planned to make sure that her family would not suffer either way. As my cousin Luke says, what good is money if it does no good?

_(To his discredit my cousin had also said that his latest lover Benji had left him unable to walk for a whole day this past weekend. There is sharing and oversharing, so I used the wonders of the telegraphic system to arrange for the behemoth to receive another bumper box of 'supplies' from a certain shop that would wipe the smile off my cousin's face, if only because he would no longer have the muscle coordination left to do one! I hated people who could smirk over the telegraph!)_

Fortunately however the closeness of the local area was now to work to my advantage. I had gone for a walk up the mountain to be alone with my thoughts, so I was surprised when I saw a young fellow walking purposefully towards me across the hillside. He was smartly attired and clearly a gentleman, although he was unknown to me.

“Mr. Holmes”, the fellow said, his Welsh accent a strong one. “My name is Mr. Dewi Pender.”

The name was unknown to me as well. I waited for elucidation.

“The son of Mrs. Pender, the former mayoress”, he explained. “Who had the affair with Johnnie Gray. I believe that you are investigating him?”

I was immediately wary, wondering if I should trust him. He smiled and reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a slim envelope.

“Johnnie was my friend”, the fellow said. “A good man but always, always with the ladies, even my own mother! He left this with me and told me to keep it safe. I think that it would be safer with you, sir.”

I took the envelope and opened it, unfolding a large sheet of paper. On it was a huge square grid, at least forty by forty, with a number in each square.

“A code”, I said. “A substitution one by the look of it. Yes, I think that I can crack this.”

“If it is any help, I think that it has something do with the seam he was working on when he was killed”, Mr. Pender said. “He was unhappy about it for some reason, but he had no control over the company so could do nothing.”

I looked at him curiously.

“The story is that he was shot for being in bed with your mother”, I said carefully. “Is that true?”

He looked at me, very clearly choosing his words with care.

“My father is Mr. Gray's business partner in the mine”, he said slowly.

Ah.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

It took me a little under an hour to crack the code, for what good it did me. The resultant paragraph was completely technical and beyond me – but not beyond someone that I knew. I sent down for another coffee and hoped that Miss Peel was still on duty. 

She was, but clearly something had happened.

“Mr. Gray here knows you are looking into something”, she said fearfully. “I'm afraid....”

“I am nearly finished with my investigation”, I interrupted. “In light of what you have told me however I think it best if I effect my departure today, so that Mr. Gray will think that I am no longer ‘on the case’. I need to speak with someone who will have to come all the way from Cornwall, but I can meet him away from here, and I promise that I will return here once everything is in place.”

She clearly wanted to trust me, but then this was her house and family on the line. I tipped her and wrote a quick message for her father, then she left and I started to pack.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

I had been confused to see destination signs on my train proclaiming it to be heading to 'Llanelly via Port Towyn' but apparently the latter town was just the Welsh name for Burry Port (I really wished that they could just stick to one or the other; besides, under either name it was not the most exciting of places and that was putting it kindly!). However it was some miles removed from Tumble so as I said the Grays would likely assume that I had given up and/or been called away elsewhere; I had made a point of implying that when quitting the hotel, as the receptionist had looked the sort who could gossip for Wales. And who, to my alarm, had simpered at me in a way which would have annoyed....

I was coming down with a cold again, apparently.

It was in this double-named town that I met Doctor John Davy, cousin to the famous Sir Humphry Davy. The doctor had most generously agreed to come all the way from his native Cornwall in order to translate my decoded sheet into a language that I could understand. He was a tall patrician of a fellow despite being barely thirty, and I immediately thought 'funeral director' which was the sort of improper thing that Watson would have.....

_Damnation!_

Doctor Davy read the paragraph several times then frowned.

“This is bad”, he said. “Very bad indeed. It may well be the ruination of the people behind it.”

“Can you tell it to me in plain English?” I asked.

“Put simply it says that while the new seam is very rich, it is a disaster waiting to happen”, he said. “It traverses am unstable geological fault.....”

He caught my glazed expression and smiled.

“Think of the different layers of rock beneath us like a sponge cake”, he said. “Cut the cake into quarters and look at two of the slices next to each other. Then move one piece up slightly. Viewed from the side you can see that the layers no longer match, and the fault is where the slices meet.”

“I see”, I said (I actually did!).

“The problem”, he said, “is that some faults are unstable. Now imagine the raised slice tilting very slightly and starting to lean on the one below so that you have tons of rock pushing down at an angle. Only a very shallow angle, but the sheer mass more than makes up for that. If you start removing one of the layers in either of the slices.....”

My eyes widened in shock.

“The seam is a death-trap!” I exclaimed.

He nodded.

“You did not say as much in your letter, but as it was couriered I am assuming a strong desire for secrecy on your part”, he said. “The technical language suggests that this paragraph comes from a report stating that the seam was unusable – and given the appalling safety record of the mining companies, I would wager a penny to a pound that that report was suppressed.”

He was good. 

“I thought that the full report might be in a house that the mine owners were suddenly desperate to acquire possession of”, I said ruefully. “It is very close to the mine and was once owned by someone associated with this report. But I had the whole place searched and they found nothing.”

He looked at me quizzically.

“The whole place?” he asked. “Or just the house?”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Well”, he grinned, “if I was going to hide a large report in such a house so that it would stay hidden, I would choose a place where I would believe that no-one would ever look.”

“Where?” I asked, surprised. He grinned.

“I would not have thought of this had I not seen it at a mine where I attended a patient”, he said. “They had cottages by the entrance you see, with coal on the ground all around it – _yet the people who built the cottages had still gone and put a coal-bunker behind each one!”_

I stared at him. The fellow was a genius!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Because I did not wish to endanger the Peels any more than I already had done, I hired a horse and rode there only when it was dark. It was nearly midnight when I arrived and the summer heat still lingered on the land; I effected a disguise before tying my horse in a field near the village and walking to the Peel's cottage. Mr. Peel was more than a little astonished to be woken in the middle of the night and even more so by my request, but he took a candle and we went out to his unused coal-bunker to check to see if Mr. Davy had been right.

_Jackpot!_

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Although Mr. Simon Gray was the manager of the mine, the owner who controlled over fifty per cent of it was one Hugh, Lord Soughton. I wired Luke to see what he knew of him and he sent back that he was a sound enough fellow whose main failing was to trust others too much. Luckily the nobleman's house was at Kidwelly a little way along the coast from Burry Port, so he was to hand.

Lord Soughton was an elderly gentleman, and to see him I had to first get past his son Thomas who very clearly regarded me with great suspicion. 

“What business is all this of yours Mr. Holmes, may I ask?” the latter said frostily.

“Tom!” his father snapped. “Mr. Holmes has an excellent reputation. I sincerely doubt that he would bother us for some minor matter.”

“I am afraid”, I said flatly, “that what I am about to 'bother' you for what is a potential act of mass murder.”

They both stared at me in shock.

“Please explain, sir”, Lord Soughton said. 

“It concerns the mine that you own a controlling interest in, near a village called Tumble”, I said. “A short time back there was a report into a new and potentially lucrative seam, which was subsequently opened.”

“We know this”, Mr. Soughton said suspiciously.

“What you do not know is that the report was changed”, I said, extracting the copy of the report I had had typed up before coming here. “This is a summary of the original, which was preserved by the manager's son who was against the development because he knew that it was dangerous. A friend of mine who is an expert has very kindly written a technical explanation of the whys and the wherefores which I admit are beyond me, and I have brought that as well.”

I handed over the note that Mr. Davy had been kind enough to do for me.

“Are you saying that my managers suppressed the original report just to make more money?” Lord Soughton asked.

“I fear that they may have done rather more”, I said. “There are some suspicious circumstances surrounding the death of the manager's son, which may have been effected to silence him as he was against the opening of the seam. Unfortunately I think that the cover-up there was too thorough and the police will likely not be able to prove anything.”

I could see that Mr. Soughton was still doubtful but his father quickly read the summary sheet and nodded.

“This fellow knows his stuff”, he said. “The seam will have to be closed. You know, Mr. Holmes, that there will likely be job losses as a result?”

“I might recommend that you start with your manager there, Mr. Gray”, I said. “I would also like to put in a word for the Peel family, whose daughter approached me in this matter and who, unless action is taken to prevent it, will certainly be targetted by the Grays in the future.”

“I _loathe_ bullies!” Lord Soughton said forcibly. “We will act at once!”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Indeed they did. The seam was closed down immediately and fortunately there was enough anthracite elsewhere in the mine's reach to prevent any job losses. Except for the manager Mr. Gray who was doubly if deservedly unfortunate, when I ensured that the mayor's wife discovered what he had been saying about her behind her back and went to the police to tell them the truth about young Johnnie Gray's murder. The Grays fled the country before the police could get to them; they were tracked as far as St. Petersburg but thereafter the trail went cold. Hopefully they both died a horrible death down a Siberian mine!

I should also add that, without any prompting on my part, Lord Soughton insisted on paying a most generous reward to the Peel family for their role in the affair.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

_Notes:_   
_† The Swansea & Mumbles Railway, the first passenger railway in the world although it used horse-drawn carriages until locomotives were introduced in 1859. Almost exactly a century later the local council ignored warnings and sold it to the local bus company, who promptly closed it._

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	5. Case 64: The Adventure Of The Surprising Strongbow ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1883\. Holmes receives a request for help from his friend Miss Clementine St. Leger, concerning a friend of hers in Pembrokeshire. Curiously another William Marshall is a new Strongbow – and he fears that he is about to be cheated in an archery competition. Holmes ensures fair play but gets more than one surprise in Little England Beyond Wales.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

Before leaving Tumble for the last time I had made sure to leave my contact details and those of my cousin Luke for Mr. Peel, just in case there were any further problems with the Grays (as things turned out, those villains' flight from the area occurred the day after my own departure). I then returned to the county town of Carmarthen before moving on to St. Clears, where my curiosity was piqued by a carriage service to visit somewhere called ‘Pendine Sands’. It was one of the longest beaches I had ever seen in my life, which was strange as the effect was almost claustrophobic on me and I was glad to leave the place. Nowadays (1936) the Sands are famous as the place where, for some strange and inexplicable reason, idiots try to drive their auto-mobiles a few miles per hour faster than anyone else. Mankind is strange at times!

Returning with some relief to St. Clears I continued along the line to Whitland, somewhere I would visit again as things turned out. This village was the junction for the long branch-line to Pembroke which I decided to traverse, visiting Narberth, Saundersfoot and Tenby (the latter town the scene of one of my more curious cases much later) before reaching the terminus which was a busy but still friendly place. It was there that a message reached me from my friend Miss St. Leger. One of her stranger hobbies (even for her!) was medieval re-enactments, and she belonged to a number of organizations in and around London that did this sort of thing. A friend of hers lived only a few miles away – no, I was not the least bit surprised that she knew exactly where I was – and her telegram asked me to call in on one William Marshall, or 'Strongbow' as he apparently was known (!). I once again rued the absence of my walking historical encyclopaedia and had to go to the local library to understand the reference before continuing on my journey.

The original 'Strongbow', one William Marshall, had been a minor lord in the twelfth century until he had successfully pursued a claim to the earldom of this county, an important area at the time given King Henry the Second's sudden interest in Ireland that, my book snarked, was absolutely in no way to help make amends for his accidentally having had his best friend Thomas Becket killed at the altar in Canterbury cathedral, no sir. The Marshall, who had acquired his surname from his post as being in charge of an army, had been quite a character, and after a long and illustrious career had seen through the writing of the Magna Carta and in his seventies had helped establish young King Henry the Third on the throne – which as things turned out was to prove his worst mistake. 

Watson would love this book. And our rooms in Baker Street had that huge bookshelf which really needed to be filled. I made a note of the title and decided to arrange to have it for when he came back. When, not if.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Although Haverfordwest was only about ten miles north of Pembroke and had its own railway station, I would have had to go all the way back to Whitland to reach it, so it was infinitely easier for me to take the short ferry crossing to a rather industrial Neyland where I could catch a train there. The county town (I wondered why not Pembroke itself) was a pleasant little place made more so by the warm August sun, and I looked forward to meeting my client the modern Mr. William Marshall.

Oh dear! I had hardly been expecting a fierce and brutal medieval baron, but what I got was very clearly a minor clerk of some sort on his day off. Never mind Strongbow; this fellow did not look capable of blowing the skin off a rice-pudding! He was in his mid-twenties, fair hair already thinning on top and looked utterly inconsequential.

_(A further reason that I did not publish this case, as well as the obvious one that it was during the Early Hiatus, was that it was another in which I would cover myself in less than glory. My stepbrother Campbell was right when he said that I was terrible at reading people, although he was already smug enough not to need to be told that)._

“Thank you for seeing me, sir”, my client said. His voice was much as I had expected, so soft that it was almost inaudible. “Miss St. Leger said that you might be able to help me.”

“I will try”, I promised. “What seems to be the problem, exactly?”

“There is an archery competition this weekend”, he said. “I think that I am going to lose.”

I stared at him. _That was it?_

“I take it that there is more?” I said hopefully.

“August the eleventh is the day St. David performed a miracle, you see”, he said, somehow contriving to look even more piteous. “A knight threatened to have him shot for coming onto his land, and when the saint walked on by, he ordered one of his archers to shoot him. The saint sent the arrow straight into the knight's chest.”

“They are honouring that?” I asked, surprised. He nodded.

“There is to be a competition”, he said, “and the prize will be an arrow blessed by Bishop Jones. My Lily, she likes that sort of thing, so I said that I would try and win it for her.”

“You are married?” I asked, trying not to sound that incredulous. I supposed that in a world of some eight hundred million people there had to be someone out there even for the likes of him, but it was still surprising.

“Yes sir”, he said. “But unless you can help, I will lose.”

“How can you know that?” I asked.

“Barry – Mr. Bishop's son – he is in the re-enactment group as well, sir”, he said. “And my brother Ned works in the bookies.”

I just stared at him. This case was getting ever stranger! He smiled at my confusion.

“Everyone knows that I am the best archer in town”, he said. “But Ned says that he has had lots of bets on some other fellow who has registered for the competition, someone from outside the county. They are going to try something, and Lily fears they may even try to get at me as part of it.”

I was never so stupid to think that I had seen it all (although this case would later prove me stupid enough in other areas), but rigging medieval archery contests? Things had come to this?

“I shall have to contact our mutual friend Miss St. Leger”, I said. “Hopefully she can find what I am looking for.”

“What is that, sir?” he asked.

“A bowman!”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Sure enough Miss St. Leger delivered, and I learned that a certain talented gentleman was headed to Pembrokeshire this weekend. I shook my head at the deviousness of Mankind at times, and all over a piece of wood with an iron point even if it had been blessed by the local bishop. Really!

The contest was to be held on Saturday, so on Friday night I went into the town and sought out my quarry. I found 'Mr. King' in the pub and was soon chatting to him like an old friend. It was relatively easy to do what needed to be done, and I was pleased to see that by the end of our encounter he had some difficulty in finding the door. With what I had slipped into his drink he would have had difficulty finding anything!

I did however have one surprise that evening in that I also saw Mr. Marshall, so I went to talk with him once my work was done. I noted that, rather curiously, almost every woman in the place was staring at him with something that an uncharitable person might have described as simpers (because they were). It was palpably wrong of any gentleman to expect so many woman to look at him like that, and I asked him if it annoyed him at all.

“Not really”, he sighed. “I am used to it. Besides they all know that I am married and would never look at another woman when I have my Lily. And she is expecting again.”

That surprised me even more, but I covered it well enough.

“Congratulations”, I smiled. “Your second?”

He took a drink of his beer.

“No”, he said. “Ninth.”

I nearly choked on my own drink! _What?_

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Despite his rather surprising procreational abilities Mr. Marshall was to be proven wrong about the competition. He easily bettered the score of young Mr. Bishop but he also finished well ahead of Mr. King, as did everyone else. As the officials gathered for the prize-giving I saw a rotund gentleman bustling up, looking very annoyed.

“Old Mr. Bishop”, Mr. Marshall muttered. “Here comes trouble!”

“That fellow cheated!” Mr. Bishop declared. “He employed someone to tamper with the drink of one of his competitors, so that the poor fellow could not shoot straight.”

Several people at once looked suspiciously at Mr. Marshall, with the notable exception of Mr. King who was sitting down and grasping both arms of his chair. Even then he looked decidedly unsteady.

“Is that true, sir?” the chief official asked me.

“Oh yes”, I said calmly.

They were all clearly shocked at my brazenness.

“You _admit_ to cheating?” another official demanded.

“Only to counter the cheating of someone else”, I said. “For example, once Mr. King over there is capable of standing up, you might put a couple of questions to him. The first, I would venture to suggest, could be as to why he entered this competition under a false name.”

I saw Mr. Bishop edging towards the door and hurried on.

“The second is why Mr. Bishop here paid him so to do”, I said, “and then along with his friends placed several large wagers on him as an apparent outsider.”

“I do not understand”, the chief official said. “Kindly explain yourself, sir.”

“’Mr. Cenred King’ is in reality Mr. Charles Knight, one of the most skilled bowmen in this country”, I said. “Indeed he has won competitions abroad for his talent. When I learned that my client Mr. Marshall was having an unknown rival wagered on, I suspected that Mr. Bishop was arranging to bring in someone even more talented. Obviously it had to be done under a false name in case anyone checked; in such a small world as archery, a bowman at the top might well be known to the likes of Mr. Marshall.”

Mr. Knight’s escape had been cut off, mainly by Mr. Marshall moving swiftly round to the exit. That had been another thing that had surprised me; when he had arrived in his sports vest for the competition, his upper body definition had been phenomenal, which was perhaps something that I should have figured for him to be capable of drawing back a longbow. And the local women were still all simpering at him, which was just wrong!

_(When I remarked on this sort of behaviour to Watson some time later, he just looked at me and said nothing. Strange)._

“Suspecting what was afoot, I befriended Mr. Knight yesterday”, I said. “My years working both with and against thieves have taught me a few useful skills, and it was easy to slip a preparation that I had ordered from London into his drink so that he could not shoot straight today. You may call that cheating gentlemen, but I prefer to call it righting a wrong.”

“So it is”, the chief official said firmly. “We shall proceed with the presentation. Mr. Marshall?”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

My client was duly invested with the Blessed Arrow, and the following day I went round to his house to take my leave. To my surprise there seemed rather more than eight children there; the place was full of them. My client saw my confusion and smiled.

“I am actually thirty-one”, he said, “although everyone says I do not look it. I was married to Lily's sister Margaret and had five boys by her before she died delivering the sixth. Then I took a few months off before marrying Lily here. I did not want to wear myself out, after all.”

I counted at least fifteen young versions of the fellow around the place, twelve of them boys. Then I looked at my client who.... well, the expression on his face was dangerously near a smirk, in my humble opinion. What possible reason did he have to.....?

I really needed to start reading people better.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	6. Case 65: The Adventure Of The Florida Feather-head ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1883\. Who is targetting an argumentative man by breaking into his garden shed? A curious little case in which it proves all but impossible to bring the villain to justice, even for Holmes – yet justice is still done.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

Watson once remarked that the Welsh might have many reasons to dislike us English even if they had foisted the Tudor dynasty on us with all that entailed, good and ill. One such – and this is the sort of fact that my much-missed friend loves – is the mangling of their language, for this case took place in a beautiful location that was known locally as the Valley of the Flowers, which in Welsh is Ystrad Fflur (I am glad that I am able to write rather than have to try to say this; I like a fair proportion of vowels in my words!). The English effort at this was of course to use Latin (?) hence the valley and the beautiful abbey which had once graced it before the terrible King Henry the Eighth had his way were both called Strata Florida.

As In have said before I had little interest in history, and although I had been able to use some of our adventures to enable Watson to see some of his beloved old cathedrals and ancient monuments, I had got nothing out of such trips myself and had often found some excuse to be elsewhere so that my friend could enjoy them without seeing my disinterest. The recent Haverfordwest case had as mentioned tangentially involved the Bishop of nearby St. David's, one of the four great Welsh cathedral cities, but although I enjoyed the Pembrokeshire coastline, especially the village of Broad Haven which faced right out onto the wide Atlantic, I eschewed going into the great church in the cathedral ‘city’. Such things were to be saved for when I next had someone with me, which definitely _would_ happen again one day.

From St. David's I drove up the coast to Fishguard, an unimpressive little town which was the embarkation point for ferries to my mother's native Ireland (she had written to me asking if I would like her to send me her latest story, 'By The Sword Divided', an English Civil War romp in which a Roundhead soldier used his mighty weapon to.... I had dropped the letter at that point and had written back that I was far too busy just now. I mean, how could my own mother traumatize me with a mere _précis?_

I took a liking to the southern coastal reaches of Cardigan Bay, where only Cardigan and Aberayron were connected to the railway network by long branches, so kept to my carriage and visited Dinas, Newport and Moylgrove before crossing into Cardiganshire to visit the county town. Then it was Aberporth, Llangranog and New Quay, all quiet and unassuming villages which I quite liked, before reached the pleasant town of Aberayron. I had planned to take the branch back to Lampeter which I had gone through earlier but there was some problem on the line that day, so I instead hired another carriage and cut across to Tregaron. 

I was surprised to find that I did not miss London as I had thought I might, although I did miss Watson more each day. While in Haverfordwest I had received a note bordering on the curt that had reported his arrival at some place in southern Egypt that was hot and, I saw with alarm from a map, perilously close to the border with the rebellious Sudan region. I took to scanning the news from abroad with extra care after that and was ever more grateful for Luke's weekly and occasionally more frequent news reports.

Yes, the note had hurt. But I knew full well that I deserved that hurt.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

It was September now and I was in the north of Cardiganshire when I came across a small case that made me miss my friend even more, for it was inconsequential yet humorous and I know that he would have enjoyed it. Capturing the villain proved beyond even my talents, but almost everyone was happy with the result. Or at least definitely everyone was happy who deserved to be happy, which was what mattered after all.

The Railway Age was reaching the point where the newer lines were serving the less populated parts of the country, and many were struggling to make ends meet. One such was the grandly-named Manchester & Milford Railway, which as the name implies was aimed at connecting the great Lancashire metropolis to the sea at New Milford (later Milford Haven) in Pembrokeshire. After all it was only 250 miles, almost as close to the already-connected Liverpool some thirty-five miles away!

I suppose that to be fair, I should say that Watson later pointed out that I was being a tad unfair in my observations, as the line had been encouraged and party funded by the government in an attempt to support the rural areas through which it passed. I checked – all right, I had Miss St. Leger check for me – but he was correct, which I found most annoying!

Like most government schemes these days the new line soon ran into trouble, and for the past eight years the company had been in receivership, and indeed would remain so until the end of the century. Fortunately the trains were still running when I visited so I boarded a train at Tregaron and soon reached Strata Florida Station. I was inured to our railways and their ‘elastic’ station-naming policies by this time so I was not the least bit surprised to find that the station was in somewhere called Ystrad-Meurig, Meurig's Valley whoever Meurig† had been when he was alive, and at least four miles from the abbey ruins that they purported to serve and which Watson had mentioned to me one time (that may have been one reason for my visit). The village was what was most politely described as 'spectacularly unexciting' but it had a chapel, the remains of a castle of some sort and a small tavern which would put me up for a few days. It was one of the most isolated places I had yet been in and I felt oddly free there, although of course I would much rather have had company. 

Medical company.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

The landlady of the Royal Arms (the flag of the ancient kingdom of Ceredigion, I noted, not the Royal Standard) was a woman called Mrs. Chappell. I say woman rather than lady for she was most certainly not the latter; the way she kept looking at me as if she was considering trading her husband in (the one currently standing right next to her and looking far from happy!) was quite unseemly, and my dear friend would doubtless have started coughing and perhaps even have ventured a.... scowl. Definitely not the single-syllable word starting with a 'p' and ending with 'out'.

I hoped desperately that Luke was right when he assured me that my friend was safe, and that he would only wish to serve three years out there.

The day after my arrival found me reading quietly in my room; there was both a fog and a persistent drizzle, and a warm fire with my book seemed infinitely preferable. I had been disturbed by some sort of commotion from downstairs shortly before supper-time so when I went down for my meal I asked Harriet, one of the serving-girls, if anything was wrong. She sighed and rolled her eyes.

“Bill and Ben!” she muttered as if that somehow explained everything. “Mr. Jones, sir?”

A young fellow had appeared next to me, a farm-hand by the look of him and about my age. He nodded to the girl and she placed a pint in front of him before moving off.

“You'd be the detective”, Mr. Jones said slowly. 

“That I am”, I agreed, “I am taking a holiday in your fair county.”

He looked thoughtfully at me.

“Any good at stopping wars?” he asked hopefully.

I looked at him in surprise. He gestured to a table over by the window and I followed him there. We both sat down and he sighed heavily.

“You seen those three cottages on the road to the abbey?” he asked. 

“No”, I said. “I meant to go that way and see the abbey ruins today, but the weather put me off.”

“Be fine tomorrow”, he said confidently. “I live in the middle cottage and work on the estate farm. But my neighbours either side of me – they were the two having a shouting-match in here earlier. Luckily Harry knows I usually come in around this time and came out to warn me so I could enter via the back. Otherwise I'd have gotten drawn into it all again.”

“Drawn into what, exactly?” I asked.

“As I said, the war” he sighed unhappily. “My wife is due in five months and the thought of trying to raise a child between the neighbours from hell – I really wish we could move. Or that one of them would!”

“Tell me about them”, I said, sitting back.

“It's a potent mixture”, he said. “Bill – Mr. William ap Gruffydd – is as Welsh as they come. His family has been here for as far back as anyone can remember, and since the lord of the manor prefers not to bother with an outlying area like us, he lords it over everyone in the village. Or at least he used to until Ben arrived.”

“I am to take it that this 'Ben' is English?” I hazarded. He nodded.

“Half English and half Scots, though there's nothing of the Celt in him”, he said. “Mr. Benjamin Bright, which is I suppose a good name as he's managed to work out that always being cheery annoys the hell out of his enemies. Ben's family came here with the railway; I know the papers are always going on about those dreadful Irish navvies but the men who built the line were a mix, like most places or so I read. Ben's family come from the south of the county; he was one of their managers and he had enough money to retire on so he settled here, next to me and Bill. The cottage he took is a bit bigger as it has an extension built on the side; I know for a fact that Bill wanted it for himself so that was something else for them to cross swords over.”

He really was quite disrespectful towards his elders. Watson would have liked him.

“Do you happen to know the cause of tonight's _contretemps?”_ I asked.

“How could I not?” he groused. “The idea of keeping their voices down never crosses their mind, then they both insist on telling me how unreasonable the other is. Ben provokes Bill damn cleverly; he never loses control and only matches him for volume, which makes him even madder. The only hope is that when May has our child she will get annoyed with their bickering and clock them both one! Then there’s this theft thing.”

I looked expectantly at him.

“They're both proud of their gardens”, he said, “which is damn annoying as I cannot use mine without having to listen to their whining. Bill has a shed in his and last night someone broke into it. He doesn't think that anything was stolen, but the funny thing was that the door wasn't forced. He did say he had some bird seed missing but he was going to go through it today and check for anything else.”

 _'The Case Of The Missing Bird-Seed'_ , I thought. _Drum-roll if you please!_

“I would quite like to see the 'scene of the crime'”, I said, thinking proudly that I had almost achieved a Watson-esque level of snark there, “although given what you have told me, I think that I would prefer to do it when neither of those gentlemen is at home.”

“The only time you could be sure of that is Sunday”, he said. “You don't need to be a detective to work out why.”

“Because they will both be attending chapel and competing in the Piety Stakes!” I grinned. 

He nodded.

“Got it in one!”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

George – Mr. Jones – told me a little more about his terrible neighbours and I could not but sympathize with him. In an odd way and despite having lived in London, Watson and I had been partly insulated against such anti-social behaviour because our landladies had the power to evict anyone behaving in such an untoward manner. Coincidentally I had asked Miss St. Leger to keep an eye on Mrs. Hudson and to ensure that she was not inconvenienced by any of her other tenants during my absence, particularly after the problems that I had had with Mycroft back in Cramer Street. Although if he tried anything then Mrs. Hudson did have that pistol.…

_How the blazes could Watson be a bad influence on me from a thousand miles away?_

Miss St. Leger had sent back to thank me for my help in the Pembrokeshire matter and, being Miss St. Leger, had been unable to refrain from asking me if by some chance I had underestimated the 'potent' Mr. William Marshall (I would have used a less flattering adjective; I mean, fifteen children by thirty-one and women simpering at him like that?). More usefully she also warned me that my mother's had now embarked on another horror about a sex-mad religious sect who eschewed underwear, 'Free Willy'. Even two hundred miles away I still shuddered!

I had met George had occurred on a Tuesday so I had plenty of time before Sunday to explore the area. I decided to walk to the abbey ruins on the Wednesday as that would enable me to take a look at the three cottages in passing, not that I thought I would be able to tell much from a passing glance. But as I passed Mr. Gruffydd's shed I stared incredulously at it, then smiled to myself. This looked set to be perhaps the strangest criminal that I would ever come up against!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Because George had been right about the weather on Wednesday I asked Harriet if she would let me know when he was next in the pub so that I could speak to him. He came in that evening and I asked him what he thought the next few days would be like.

“No rain for at least a week”, he said confidently. “At least there will be a breeze to keep the likes of me cool.”

“I think that I know the identity of the thief”, I smiled. “Tell me, has Mr. Gruffydd accused Mr. Bright of stealing from him?”

“He has told everyone who cannot run away fast enough!” the farm-hand sighed.

“Cheer up”, I said. “I hope to have this solved, and it may even be that Mr. Gruffydd will have to control himself a little better in the future.”

He looked at me curiously.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

I took a train back to Tregaron on Thursday and made a rather unusual purchase from a shop there. George had been right about the weather again; there was not a cloud in the sky but it was pleasantly cool for early September. 

I returned to the village and was fortunate enough to catch George on his way to his cottage. I pulled him aside for a word.

“I have an idea as to how the thief might be caught”, I said, “but I will need a few days and possibly up to a week stationed near the shed to be able to effect it.”

He was clearly torn, wanting the matter sorted but unwilling to expose his pregnant wife to any stress.

“If you can let me have your place from Saturday to next Friday”, I said, “I think that I can pretty much guarantee success. I would suggest that you and your good lady wife spend a pleasant week at the seaside in Aberystwyth. With parenthood approaching it may be the last time off you will have in a while.”

He looked at me as if I were quite mad!

“I do _work_ , sir”, he objected.

“I asked your employer, Lord Rogerstone, if he would allow me to borrow you for a week”, I said. “I told him that I needed someone with farming experience for a case that I was working on, and as it was a government matter I could not provide details although he would be fully compensated for your time off.”

He sniffed, clearly taken aback at this.

“I am finding this matter most challenging, so there is no issue about any cost”, I said airily. “You and your wife should enjoy yourself, and by the time you will return all will be sorted.”

Watson would have been proud of me. Even more so when the farm-hand and his wife would arrive at their hotel and find that it was the best one in the whole town. After all they had been through with their neighbours and with all those nappies to come, they deserved a good time. It was nice to help good people.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

On Saturday night I waited until it was completely dark before slipping round to Mr. Gruffydd's house. George had been right about the garden; it was absolutely pristine and the shed looked very solid. Except for the one thing in the door that I had seen on my first visit here – a cat-flap!

I set to work.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

The following morning I rose early and went round to see if my trap had caught anything. Sure enough it had, if somewhat messily. I grinned and went back to the cottage; I could have woken Mr. Gruffydd but I supposed that at six o' clock on a Sunday morning he might not be best pleased, tempting though it was. I could defer his embarrassment until later.

A few hours later I could see from the open window that Mr. Gruffydd was up and doubtless preparing to go to the chapel. I took the small folder that I had ready and went round to see him. He clearly recognized my name and stared curiously at me.

“I am to be hoping you are not investigating any murders in _this_ county, sir”, he said snootily.

He spoke as if Cardiganshire, being his domain, was therefore to be exempt from having any murders on its soil. I smiled at him.

“Happily I am not”, I said. “But I am afraid that I am the bearer of bad news. It concerns the thefts from your shed of late.”

He was clearly surprised at that.

“There was only one theft, sir”, he said icily, “and that villain Bright carried it out. I do not know how yet but I will find out!”

“I can tell you who the thief is”, I said. “Well, that is sort of true. I can certainly tell you what they look like, although the chances of your ever apprehending them are extremely small if not zero.”

“What do you mean, sir?” he demanded haughtily.

“You are possessed of a cat?”

He too looked at me as if I were quite mad!

“Has that become a crime of late, sir?” he sniffed. “If so then _I_ was not informed.”

I shook my head at him.

“Cats are renowned for being able to go anywhere, usually where they are not wanted to be”, I said. “I know that at some time in the past your cat managed to lock itself inside your shed.”

He was clearly suspicious of me.

“Who told you that?” he demanded.

“You did.”

He just stared at me.

“I have never spoken to you until today, sir!” he said frostily.

“You installed a cat-flap in the shed door, so that if your pet wandered in there it could wander out again”, I said. “Now I must show you this.”

I opened my folder and extracted a strip of yellow plasticine.

“I believed that the thief would attempt another entry of your shed this week, sir”, I said. “So I placed this in front of the door last night. Look!”

He looked down. The plasticine was covered with what were obviously the footprints of a bird. His eyes widened.

“You are telling me.....” he began.

“A magpie, I think”, I said. “You installed a very clever bird-feeder in your garden which is surrounded by a wire cage, so the smaller birds could get at the seed while the larger ones cannot. You must have spilled some seed by the cat-flap recently and a magpie, showing that it was most definitely not a feather-head, was able to push it open so he could get at the seed inside.”

Mr. Gruffydd suddenly went very red. Yes, he had got there.

“Indeed”, I said, not at all smirking at his evident discomfiture. “That bird is about to be responsible for you having to apologize to pretty much everyone in north-east Cardiganshire!”

I wished him good day and left, guessing quite well what would happen next.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

George and his pregnant wife – what _was_ she carrying in there, I thought but wisely did not say – returned the following Friday, both looking refreshed. I was able to assure them that Mr. Gruffydd would likely be somewhat more restrained over the coming months. Indeed, things worked out for the best in every sense as by the time Master George Jones entered this world five months later – a shade over nine pounds! – his parents had new neighbours, with Mr. Gruffydd having decided to move somewhere back down the valley. _Such_ a pity!

Watson would have enjoyed my complete lack of sincerity there. I really missed him!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

_Notes:_   
_† The name refers to the small river that runs into through the village and then east into the Teifi, although that in turn takes its name from a saint’s name._

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	7. Case 66: The Adventure Of The Rubber-Ducks ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1883\. A tired Welsh gentleman requests Holmes's help over his squabbling family, who seem set to wreck the estate that he has worked hard to build up. The great detective ducks but does not dive, and everything goes swimmingly.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

This was another of the lighter cases that leavened my sometimes (oftentimes) weighty caseload over the years, and like so many it involved an inheritance. Money may not buy happiness but it certainly assures the attentions, however late in the day, of an impressively large number of hitherto unknown relatives without whom the recipient could have done very well.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

After the successful conclusion to the Florida affair I had followed in the footsteps of the Joneses to Aberystwyth on the coast, which did not really impress me although I found the narrow-gauge railway up the Vale of Rheidol charming enough. Then I journeyed via the seaside village of Borth on into Merioneth-shire and the historic town of Machynlleth, which was much more pleasant. I considered staying with the coast but the forecast was for a storm blowing in off the Irish Sea for the next few days so I followed a suggestion from my Machynlleth hotel clerk (someone else Watson who would certainly have rolled his eyes at; she both sighed at me _and_ batted her eyelashes!) heading for the village of Tal-y-llyn which lay just off the road north to Dolgelley. Two narrow-gauge railways that had very clearly been built primarily for slate purposes ran to within a few miles of each other with a connecting carriage, so I went up the Corris Railway in a coach that rattled most alarmingly but just about held together, and was relieved to reach the relative safety of the carriage for the ride on to Tal-y-llyn itself. 

As I have said before, the Victorians had a passion for the countryside especially as the railway network had opened up so much of it, and I was not at all surprised to reach the isolated little lake and find at least two sizeable hotels on its southern bank. It really was a wonderful place and for the first time in a long while I felt totally at peace, even if something rather important was still missing from my life. I stared out across the silent waters and wondered what Watson was doing just now. 

Sweating, most likely.

It was strange that I should have been thinking of my friend that particular day because I went for a walk on my arrival and arrived back to the hotel to a large package that had been sent up from London. It was, it turned out, Watson's writing up of The Resident Patient case, and was accompanied by a short note which, while not of the tone that had once been between us, was markedly less frigid than his last communication. My heart leapt for some strange reason, but it was probably the change of air around the lake.

Watson mentioned in his letter – and this did surprise me – that he had been encouraged to write by my sister of all people, who had obtained his address from our brother Carl and had encouraged my friend that portraying Guilford as an idiot (which he was) would not offend the family in any way. I made a mental note to thank Anna when I next saw her; it was good to have at least some family members that one did not feel a regular urge to push off the nearest cliff.

I wondered how big a splash Torver might make.... no, that would have been wrong. There were rules nowadays about polluting our coastal waters.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

As well as their love of things pastoral the Victorians were a hardy bunch, which was why something else that had not surprised me had been that despite it being late October, the carriage service had still been running and both hotels were open. There was however one other guest who I considered something of a puzzle, as I always seemed to see him at lunch but never at breakfast or dinner. I asked Cadfael, one of the bell-boys, about it and the young fellow sighed for some reason.

“That's poor old Mr. Rolt”, he said. “The richest man in south Merioneth-shire.”

I looked at him in confusion.

“How can he be both poor _and_ rich?” I asked, not unreasonably.

“I meant his family, sir”, the boy said. “That's why he comes here you see, to get away from them all. Horrible lot; if any of them were found floating face-down in the lake the police wouldn't be short of suspects!”

I thanked him for his information and tipped him. Even at this distance I could see that this Mr. Rolt did not look a happy man, and if he was indeed rich then I was sure he would be beset with the sort of relatives who would be incredibly attentive. And also incredibly annoying.

On a hunch, I rose and went over to the gentleman's table.

“I am Mr. Sherlock Holmes, sir”, I said. “May I be allowed to join you?”

He looked at me curiously, then seemed to place me.

“The detective”, he said. “Dickon said he enjoyed your stories. Yes, please sit down.”

I did.

“May I ask why you are in the area, sir?” he asked.

“I am treating myself to a holiday”, I said, “although it is in my nature to find matters that need my attention. Even in the very remotest parts of the British countryside.”

I had offered him an opening there. He hesitated, but nodded.

“You may be able to help me, then”, he said. “I am in a most painful predicament concerning my estate, sir, and I cannot see any way out.”

“Tell me about it”, I urged.

He signalled for the waiter to bring us two more coffees, and very noticeably waited until he had gone.

“Not that I think the staff here would run to anyone at my house”, he said. “But I have four sons all of whom would stop at nothing to secure my estate, and far too many men can be bought for the right price.”

“Can you not dispense with your estate how you wish?” I asked. He shook his head.

“Henry, David, Simon and William”, he said. “If I did try to cut one or more of them out then they would surely make a court matter of it, and that would drain the estate dry. Each of them is just waiting for me to.... it is complicated.”

I sipped my coffee. It was most pleasant, as had been some most excellent bacon at breakfast this morning. I definitely liked this area.

“Take your time, sir”, I said. “I am not in any rush.”

He drew a deep breath.

“My fool of a grandfather started it”, he said. “He was a great athlete but all four of his sons were lazy, so he devised a will that set up a competition. The four of them had to run a race and the winner got the estate plus a half of the financial holdings. The rest of the holdings was divided in proportion to who came where in the race, so the second-placed son got one-quarter, the third one-sixth, and the last one-twelfth.”

 _That was certainly unusual_ , I thought.

“Did your father continue the tradition?” I asked. His face darkened.

“He did”, he said angrily. “He made it winner take all!”

I looked at him in surprise.

“You do not seem happy at having won”, I observed.

“I had but one brother, Richard”, he said. “He spent his life in a wheelchair and our father was cruel enough to hate him for it. My one regret in life is that Richard died before my father although he had one son, my nephew Dickon who I mentioned and who thanks be is healthy enough. I wanted to share my estate between the five of them but, annoying as it is to say it, I can see now why my grandfather did what he did. The alternative, as I said, is a lengthy court case and my estate being bled dry so that no-one except the lawyers gets anything.”

I thought for a moment.

“Your grandfather's race”, I said. “Is it still talked about in these parts?”

He smiled sourly.

“Not much exciting happens in southern Merioneth-shire”, he said. “The little railway's advent has been the most exciting thing of late†, even though it has not reached this far.”

“I think that your grandfather may have been onto something”, I said. “We might even take a page out of your late father's book, and turn his questionable tactics back on him.”

He looked at me in surprise.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

It took nearly a month to arrange everything, but as I said I liked the cof…. the peace and quiet of the area so was in no hurry to leave it. My only bad moment came just before my plans were about to come to fruition when I read in the newspaper that the British Army had suffered a defeat against the Mahdist rebels in Sudan at a place called El Obeid‡. I owed Luke hugely for his getting me a telegram the same day to tell me that it had been fought a long way into the Sudan and that Watson was still at his army base, perfectly safe.

November in western Wales was suddenly rather cold.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Upon my instruction Mr. Rolt had told his family that he had decided to dispose of his estate in the traditional way, and apart from a set of funds that he would retain for his own use the bulk of the estate would be distributed in a competition, provided that they all accepted this beforehand and signed away any right to object later. I did not doubt that his sons had been rubbing their hands with glee at the thought of all that cash heading their way, and when I went to the lake near Mr. Rolt's house on the day I finally got to meet them.

Ye Gods, what a pitiful set of specimens claiming to belong to Mankind! They were I had been told all between twenty-eight and thirty-six, but clearly good living and poor self-care had taken its toll on them all. Well, they were about to pay for that in a big way!

I had been far more impressed by Mr. Rolt's nephew Dickon (Mr. Richard), who was a slender if not inconsequential young fellow of about twenty-five years of age. We had spoken the day before and he had actually been quite reluctant to take advantage of my suggestion, but had eventually been persuaded (although I had caught a definite eye-roll when his pretty and pregnant young wife had simpered at me!). 

Mr. Timothy Slane, Mr. Rolt's lawyer, stepped onto the stand that had been set up for him.

“Ahem!” he said loudly (and a tad self-importantly, it had to be said). “We are here to oversee the distribution of the bulk of the Lakeside estate, which is to be done by competition. In the interests of fairness and so that everyone has a chance to get something, the estate has nominally been divided up into one hundred equal parts, and each of the Rolt gentlemen present will have an opportunity to obtain some part of that for himself.”

“What do you mean, Slane?” Mr. Henry Rolt demanded (I had the Watson-esque thought that he was clearly the one who had eaten most of the pies). The lawyer smiled beatifically at him.

“You will see five large boxes, each a different colour and placed by the water's edge”, he said. “The name of each of you is on one; red for Mr. Henry, black for Mr. David, green for Mr. Simon, white for Mr. William and blue for Mr. Richard. _Behold!”_

He gestured to the middle of the lake where two men were standing up rather unsteadily in a large row-boat. They were holding a huge sack between them and as we all watched they tipped the contents out into the lake. There were booms set some distance around the boat, and the area inside them filled slowly with....

“What the hell?” Mr. David Rolt exclaimed. “Those look like.... _rubber-ducks?”_

“That is because they _are_ rubber-ducks, sir”, the lawyer smiled, holding up a yellow duck. “Each duck represents precisely one per cent of the estate's value, and the estate will be allocated accordingly dependent on your duck count, so to speak.”

“How the hell do we get at them?” Mr. Simon Rolt demanded testily. “None of us can swim, damnation!”

“Mr. Rolt has very fairly provided swimming costumes if you wish to use them”, the lawyer said equably. “In the summer-house over there....”

“It's a fix!” Mr. Henry Rolt yelled suddenly.

He pointed to his cousin Dickon, who was racing towards the summer-house.

“Hardly”, Mr. Slane said mildly. “Your father did offer to pay for swimming lessons for each and every one of you while you were growing up. You four gentlemen all declined, if you care to remember.”

The four sons glowered at each other.

“The boat-house!” Mr. Simon Rolt exclaimed suddenly. “We can take a boat out!”

The four of them lumbered along the side of the lake to the boat-house, which was quite nearby. I came and stood by Mr. and Mrs. Rolt, both of whom I had also spoken to the day before.

“What if they do take a boat and beat him?” Mrs. Rolt said worriedly.

I marvelled silently that the unpleasant boys had lost the support even of their own mother. Then again, given their natures....

“It might be best to avert our ears”, I advised as Mr. Simon Rolt narrowly reached the boat-house first and fought off his brother Mr. David to get inside. 

Sure enough, moments later there was the sound of some quite inventive swearing on the wind. It was hopefully in Welsh, given what it sounded like.

“Oh dear”, I said flatly. “It seems like someone has gone and taken away all the boats. How very tragic.”

I think that that was the first time I had seen Mr. Rolt smile.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

The ultimate humiliation for the Rolt boys was not just to have to stand there and watch their cousin become increasingly rich at their expense with every duck he retrieved, but the fact that the estate workers who had gathered to watch the event were cheering him on. Before he was done the four had all sloped off, hopefully to drown their sorrows somewhere. _Or more hopefully to drown each other!_

Even a thousand miles away, 'someone' remained a bad influence on me.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Postscriptum: As matters transpired Mr. Rolt lived for another twenty-odd years and saw the estate go from strength to strength under his nephew, whose pretty (and simpering) wife gave birth to a son three months later who was named after his grandfather. Three more sons and four daughters followed, with Mr. Richard Rolt becoming a highly respected figure in Merioneth-shire society. His cousins all disappeared off somewhere, and I very much doubt that any of them were missed.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

_Notes:_   
_† The famous narrow-gauge Talyllyn Railway, which runs from Tywyn (then Towyn) on the coast to Nant Gwernol, about three miles west of the lake. It got its name because its original terminus at Abergynolwyn is (just) in the Tal-y-llyn parish. It was the first ever preserved railway in 1950 and is still going strong; its two oldest engines are as of 2020 some 154-155 years old._   
_‡ Today called the Battle of Shaykan, indeed fought over a thousand miles south of Watson’s base. For neither the first nor the last time the British underestimated the strength of their opponents and ended up being routed; of their 11,000-strong force some 7,000 were killed and 2,000 more captured. One consequence of the battle was that other rebels in the area felt emboldened to join the uprising, most notably one group on the Red Sea called the Hadendoa who would achieve a weird sort of immortality through their nickname, ‘the fuzzy-wuzzies’ (because of their strange haircuts)._

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	8. Case 67: The Adventure Of The Diamond Lock ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1883\. Scrum down! After returning through Carnarvonshire and the scene of his half-brother (who is no longer his half-brother but is still Watson's cousin) Mr. Teledamus Newton's peregrination, Holmes visits the royal island of Anglesey. Here he finds one good man who is prepared to make a true sacrifice, and one bad man who is about to acquire a very thorough 'appreciation' for the game of rugby.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

It was some way into autumn now and the connecting carriage service was no longer running, but the hotel provided a trap to take me to Abergynolwyn where I was again able to experience narrow-gauge railway travel (or given some of the precipitous drops I could see from parts of the line, what a friend of mine would certainly have called ‘a near-death experience of a journey’). The little railway finished at Towyn on the coast, a strange place which had clearly made some sort of effort to turn itself into a seaside resort but had not quite gotten it right, and I continued northwards. I was however grateful to the owner of my hotel in the town who recommended that I not miss Dolgelley, which was a few miles inland from the coastal railway at the end of an estuary. She was right; it was a most charming town and I stayed there a full week.

Turning back on myself at Dolgelley I changed at Fairbourne (an English-sounding resort that was definitely more English than Welsh, yet weirdly charming in its almost brazen tackiness) and crossed the estuary to Barmouth which was another pleasant little town. I stopped only briefly at Harlech to see the famous castle (Watson would have loved that) before crossing into Carnarvonshire at the rather attractive little port town of Portmadoc. I felt drawn to its bustling streets, the curiosity that was the Festiniog Railway with its double-ended narrow-gauge engines, and the sheep in the shop doorways that one had to step over as moving out of the way was clearly something that they were not inclined to do. 

The coastal line continued through the small resort of Criccieth to end and the town of Pwllheli, which I knew lay only a few miles south of my half-brother (who had turned out not to be my half-brother!) and Watson’s cousin Mr. Teledamus Newton's house at Porthduilleyn. That episode at least had ended happily enough and a letter had been forwarded to me from Baker Street (I owed Luke and Carl for arranging to sort my mail at this time) while I had been in Swansea from Mr. Newton, stating how happy he now was – as well as how damn sore!

Maybe I did not owe Luke and Carl _that_ much! And even at this distance I could still arrange for Benji to receive a whole load of extra 'supplies' in time for next weekend!

There were two more places on the coast beyond the end of the railway that, I was told, were worth my attentions, and I did indeed quite like both Aber Sôch and Aberdaron, although I raised an eyebrow at the peaceful bay between them which ‘glorified’ in the name of Hell’s Mouth. Hmm. 

I could have taken a boat from Aberdaron out to Bardsey, like Strata Florida famous for its great abbey, and like Strata Florida a victim of that tyrant King Henry the Eighth. But that was a 'Watson thing' rather than a 'Holmes' thing' to do, so instead I headed to the westernmost point on the coast where I could look across to my and my mother's native Ireland (well, I could have done if there had not been a fog that made it impossible to see to the other end of the island!). I paused there and sighed unhappily. 

I should not have been alone here.

It was only a few more miles back along the Lleyn Promontory before I reached Porthduilleyn, and I felt my eyes pricking with tears as I remembered the last time that I had looked down on the village. I did not want to rekindle yet more sad memories and turned away, continuing on the 'main' road along the coast.

Carnarvon and its castle, which Watson had so enjoyed, also brought me some sad thoughts as I wondered if I would ever have the chance to make more memories with my friend, so I hastened on to the cathedral city of Bangor. It was now December and I decided to spend Christmas on the nearby Isle of Anglesey – I remember Watson telling me the name meant 'The Englishman's island', so I could mention that when I sent him my next letter – before heading across northern Wales and then maybe, just maybe touching back briefly in London. Once I had checked that my mother did not have any more finished stories to hand of course; I _liked_ being sane!

I had read of Mr. Stephenson's novel Britannia Bridge† linking Anglesey to the island of Britain, but when I alighted at the station on the other side for a better look I have to say that it did not impress me. The metal boxes reminded me – and I hoped that this was not an omen – more than a little of the ill-fated first Tay Bridge, whose collapse had brought such a shocking end to our Scottish adventure (The Adventure Of The Musgrave Ritual). 

A little way into the island I came across yet another memory of my time with Watson. He had only remarked on it after the case with Mr. Newton, but the little village of Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch‡ (!) had the longest name of anywhere in these islands, and possibly even the world. It had been lengthened from the original first twenty letters some time earlier this century by a person unknown (certainly not a letter-writer!) and I had wondered if my friend had rued missing out on it, but he had said that there was little of note there.

Except, it turned out, another case.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

The village was, as Watson had said, decidedly unremarkable, but it was well positioned for exploring the island and I was looking forward to my time there. Especially as I had received a telegram from Carl stating that Mother was having everyone round for a Mass Story Session over Christmas and would I be able to return? Clearly either his forthcoming promotion to lieutenant-colonel or maybe even just his time in the Army had driven him quite insane!

I based myself in a small inn which was more than adequate, even if the landlady (who could easily have made three of me) simpered at me in a decidedly unbecoming way. I spent the next few days just exploring; the town of Holyhead on the adjoining Holy Island where the ferries went to and from Ireland was rather too functional for my tastes but liked the county town of Llangefni. I particularly enjoyed a visit to Aberffraw which had been recommended to me by one of the locals as the one-time capital of the ancient Kingdom of Gwynedd. There was no sign of old palace of course; it had been demolished and its materials used in the great English castle at Beaumaris which I planned to visit later, but the village was a pleasant place and like Tal-y-llyn I felt at ease there.

I did send Mother a note of regret that due to a case that I could not discuss I very sadly would not be home for Christmas. I was sure that the lady at the post-office looked at me disapprovingly for telling such a huge lie over her wires. I blushed, and it was nothing like as manfully as Watson would have done.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

The locals at the inn were friendly but mostly unremarkable, except for one huge fellow in his early twenties who came in most nights and just sat there looking miserable. He answered when spoken to, I noticed, but never initiated a conversation on his own. The thing that stood out about him was his almost boyish blond curly hair which almost made my own locks look kempt by comparison (well, almost), and I wondered why he attended if it was to only be miserable. 

One of the few gentlemen that I saw with him on occasion was built on similar lines but had dark hair and little in the way of looks. He was slightly younger than the sad fellow, little more than eighteen I judged although with a formidable figure that belied his tender years. He seemed constantly anxious about something, I noted, always looking around as if expecting to see someone. It was this latter gentleman who I encountered as I headed to the station to catch a train to Llangefni, the island's county town.

“You're Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”

The thought, quite unbidden, that this young giant could quite easily murder me and dispose of my body without breaking a sweat chose that moment to amble across my mind, sit down and make itself far too comfortable. It was frankly unfair that having avoided my mother’s stories this coming festive season, they somehow still affected me from hundreds of miles away.

“I am”, I said politely. “Who might you be, sir?”

“Hugh Lancaster, sir”, he answered. “Ned – Mr. Diamond who you saw in the bar with me – is a friend of mine.”

His voice was even but there was something not quite right about it. I decided to put it aside until later.

“Is there something that I can help you with?” I asked.

“Only if you can stop a bully!”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

The county town was about seven miles from my hotel in.... the village, and I had planned to use the railway even though that would have necessitated a change at Gaerwen Junction. However since this giant obviously wished to talk with me and had chosen to do so where we were less likely to be seen talking, I suggested that we walk a way out of the village and I could take a carriage later if I still felt so inclined. Even if that would make it easier for him to hide my body when he.....

_Mother!_

“Ned and I both came from Amlwch# on the north of the island, where the line through Llangefni ends”, the giant began. “We both played for the rugby team there but he was far the better player; they called him the Diamond Lock.”

I looked at him in confusion. 

“The position he played, sir”, he explained. “We were happy there, until he met that vile wife of his, Jeromina. One of those women who were all sweetness and light on the surface but cruel as the devil when she felt like it. She had Ned wrapped round her little finger; he would do almost anything for her.”

I increasingly suspected that there was rather more than friendship involved here, at least from the giant in front of me. It had not just been concern for a friend that had caused such a reaction, it had been jealousy. But I said nothing. There were no houses or signs of human life anywhere near us and.... _Mother!_

“Her brother John – Mr. Neigle – is the weedy little runt you might have seen in some nights badgering poor Ned”, he said. “He's a waste of space if ever there was one; she bled every penny she could out of Ned and he shared in her gains right up until that day of that match.”

He took a ragged breath.

“See, she didn't just want stuff for her and John. That wasn’t enough for the likes of her. She wanted Ned to be miserable under her smart shoes the whole damn time. He gave way to her on almost everything, but the one thing he fought for was his rugby. I knew she was on at him over that, and it came to a head over the match against Llangefni. You know what local rivalries are like I'm sure, sir, and she was determined to make him miss it so said he had to go with her to the beach. It was November then so a funny time to go sea-bathing. He refused for once and they had a blazing row; I'm sure half the damn town heard it!”

“So he went off to the match with me and she went with John to her beach. Chucking it down with rain it was – they did think of abandoning the match at half-time I remember, but we got through and won 22-14. When we got back after the post-match party we found she had been taken to the hospital with pneumonia – stupid cow had insisted on going bathing despite the weather – and she died soon after. She refused to see him right to the end.”

“I see now”, I said. “Your friend's last words to his wife, undeserving as she was of his fidelity, were harsh ones that can never be taken back. Her brother is now exploiting that to the full.”

“He followed us down here”, the giant sneered, “and poor Ned has not had a minute's peace since. If it were up to me I'd box the rat up, tie on some lead weights and throw him in the sea, pollution be damned! Now Ned's seeing this local girl Penny who's.... well, she's all right I suppose, but that rat won't let him be happy with her, I'd guarantee it.”

 _And you love him enough that you would be prepared to let him go_ , I thought sadly. Sometimes the Good Lord arranged things less that perfectly. But then that was what the likes of me was for.

I had a thought.

“Does this Mr. Neigle know any of the rugby team back in your home town?” I asked.

He snorted in disbelief.

“Doubt the rat has enough strength to hold a rugby ball, sir!” he said. “Besides, he actually lived in Bull Bay just west of the town. He only moved down here to torture poor Ned.”

“Then I can see one way forward”, I said, “but I will need a few days to put measures in place. I will also have to contact a friend in London.”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

I really should not have ben surprised that a small matter of over two hundred and fifty miles would in any way have slowed the efficiency of Swordland's. Although I was surprised when Miss St. Leger informed me that I had options for my plans in Carnarvon, Bangor, Llangefni and Holyhead. Mr. Lancaster had told me that the bullying Mr. Neigle almost never left the island so I decided to recross that ugly bridge and try Bangor.

Mr. Huw Jones was, I supposed, used to the occasional surprising request working as he did on the edges of the law. But the one that I put to him was clearly unusual even for him. He stared at me incredulously, likely thinking that he had misheard me.

 _”Fourteen_ , you say?” he echoed. I nodded.

“I will need them for a whole day, as there has to be an element of training involved. I will also need to know all their measurements beforehand, and there is the remote possibility that I may need the services of a small number of them at some time in the future as well. Although I think that last is unlikely.”

He managed to effect a recovery.

“I shall have to ask around sir, but I am sure I can have them ready for you in three days”, he said.

“Thank you, sir.” 

He surely thought that I was a madman, but I was a madman with money so that was all right.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

When I told Mr. Lancaster of my plans, he gave the sort of grin that made my blood run cold. I reminded him that murder was _not_ part of the deal, and to make sure that he went to Amlwch early so that he could wire me all the information I needed. Also to arrange his alibi. I had planned to visit the town myself this week but decided to defer that until next Monday at the earliest. I did not want anyone tying a supremely modest consulting detective to any events there this weekend.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

The following Saturday Mr. Edward Diamond was returning to his home town for a short visit, which Mr. Lancaster had found a pretext to arrange. Naturally the unpleasant Mr. Neigle went with him. It would be a trip to remember for one of them.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

On Sunday I met Mr. Lancaster at the rugby club in the village. He was grinning widely.

“That rat Neigle has said he's leaving the island!” he crowed. “It worked!”

“Do not sound so surprised”, I smiled. “Were there any problems with the authorities?””

He shook his huge head.

“He managed to limp to the police-station and put in a complaint, so they went round some of the club members”, he grinned. “They were all at home or with folks, so it looked as if he had made the whole thing up! They sent down here but my brother Harry told them I'd been with him all day, and his Elsie backed him up on that.”

The unpleasant Mr. Neigle had had a bruising (in every sense!) encounter on a dark street in Amlwch, when a masked Mr. Lancaster and fourteen of his finest lads also masked and dressed in the local club uniforms (which Mr. Lancaster had borrowed and since returned) had rounded him up and taken him to the field, where they and my client had had a most enjoyable practice session. Using Mr. Neigle as a ball. Then at the end they had told him that that was only the first half, and if he pestered their friend Mr. Diamond one more time he would be taken back for the second half. Little wonder that he had decided to quit the island!

“Can I ask you a question, sir?” Mr. Lancaster said, cutting into my thoughts.

“Of course”, I said. “What is it?”

“Why?”

I stared at him in confusion.

“Why what?” I asked.

“I mean, it's hardly murder”, he said. “Why did you help? Not that I'm not grateful and all, but why?”

“For two reasons in this instance”, I said. “First, because I undertake cases where I can apply _justice_ , not always the law. What you and those men did to Mr Neigle was illegal if deserved; we both know that there was no legal remedy to stop a bully like him. Second.....”

I hesitated, my unhelpful brain again reminding me how much bigger my client was than myself. We were actually the same height but he had that beefy muscularity that had clearly made him a good rugby man. 

“Second”, I said, “you love Mr. Diamond.”

He looked mortified!

“Sir....”

“Enough to want him to be happy”, I finished. “I remember a friend pointing that out to me on a sign in London one time; if you love something set it free, because if it comes back to you it is yours and if it does not, it never was. You put your friend's happiness above your own, and that is a fine quality in any man.”

He blushed deeply.

“Thank you, sir.”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Postscriptum: Mr. Neigle did indeed leave the island permanently, a little way into the following year; I very much doubt that he was missed. Mr. Diamond married his Penny and they went on to have four children, asking Mr. Lancaster to stand as godson to their eldest boy who they named after him. A small consolation prize but when he wrote to me about it, he said that he was happy. I had my doubts – but as things turned out he would find his own happiness eventually, even if I had to help him a little with that.

I and someone else.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

_Notes:_   
_† Opened in 1850, the road and rail bridge lasted until 1970 when it was seriously damaged in a fire. The famous 'long boxes' had to be abandoned but most of the rest of the bridge was incorporated into its replacement._   
_‡ 'The church of St. Mary by the pool of the white hazels near the rapid whirlpool and the church of St. Tysilio of the red cave'. Obviously!_   
_# Pronounced 'am-luck'._

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	9. Interlude: Hot!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1883\. It is moderately warm in the desert.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

Lord but it was hot! Hot hot hot hot hot hot hot hot _hot!_

Eight months in and celebrating Christmas here at Abu Simnel with its ancient temples and endless sands, London and England seemed like another world, one that I had fled to do my penance here for the crimes of a grandfather that I had not even known - and worse, that the man that I had once thought a friend had known about and had kept from me. I still felt betrayed although this far on my feelings had.... not exactly softened but were perhaps less painful.

We were close to the border with the rebellious Sudan here, far too close in my humble opinion. But then that was the problem with Egypt; the same Nile which was its lifeblood meant that 'civilization' (if one could call it that down here, where more than half my work was treating heat-related diseases) was restricted to the valley and the occasional connected oasis. 

The political situation up in Cairo was frankly a mess. Ever since our government had bought that stake in the Suez Canal, Egypt had become in effect a satellite of Great Britain, held in place not by gravity but by the huge debts that its incompetent rulers had run up. Of course the government in faraway London was always trying to do things on the cheap, which had led to the defeat at a place called El Obeid last month. 

The Sudan, an area about twenty times the size of England or about a third the size of the Continental United States, was a bit like Afghanistan in that it was its strategic position that made it worth fighting for. It lay between French possessions in east and west Africa, as well as the fact that Egypt's water supply came through the heart of it. Never mind the dangers of a European war that Holmes had once mentioned; there was a more than even chance of trouble here if Paris started eyeing up the barren wilderness to the south.

Holmes. I missed him. Our parting had been painful for me and, I think, for him too as there had been much to resolve, but I had still been angry and he clearly ashamed. I had visited Mrs. Hudson in Baker Street when I had moved my things in there and she had been very understanding. I was I suppose very lucky that the good (and regular) pay of a British Army medic meant that I could afford to keep somewhere in London for when I returned. _If_ I returned....

I had also had some communications with Holmes's sister Anna, a pleasant lady if a terrible gossip who spent far too much of her time reading the social pages that I still only very occasionally glanced at if I had the time. She had married Mr. Bernard Thompson, a London businessman, and in July she wrote to inform me that they had had their first child (Holmes's nephew), a son named Brendon; she had got my address off her brother Carlyon since he was in the Army. Two months later there had been more news; pursuant to my exhausting time the previous year with that randy little bas.... Prince Tane of Strafford Island, her sister-in-law Rachael had provided her useless husband Mycroft with his first son (my interlocutor snarked that that still left him four sons behind his twin Carlyon, which was quite terrible of her), and that the latest male Holmes of the next generation was to be called Tantalus 'because his mother was into Greek myths'. Just as a certain Polynesian prince had been into _her!_

She really was terrible! I cannot think why we got on so well.

Mrs. Thompson also inquired as to whether I would be writing any more of my stories with Holmes, and I wrote back explaining that I has hesitating because the next one (which Holmes had agreed to be put out before my departure) was The Resident Patient, which showed her brother Guilford in a less than flattering light. Her reply was, to all intents and purposes, 'yes, and?', so thus encouraged I put pen to paper and was able to dispatch the completed manuscript to Holmes before the end of the year. I included a short note which caused me almost as much trouble as the damn story; I had to rewrite it at least six times to get the tone right. I was still angry with him but..... well, he was my friend. And I missed having him around.

I did not miss the violin-playing, though.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

All right, I missed the damn violin-playing as well. The heat was obviously getting to me!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	10. Case 68: You Only Live Twice ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1884\. A new year as Holmes continues his travels in Wales. Fifteen years after a major rail disaster, someone in a sleepy little Denbighshire village is in for a most unpleasant surprise.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

Now in the twentieth century it seems to be becoming accepted practice that government should tax people to the hilt so they can hand some of that money back 'to even things out', having of course first creamed off a hefty ‘administration fee’. The technical word for such a thing is theft, and I think that as Victorians we handled things rather better. Those with money were expected to show a degree of philanthropy to those without or risk social exclusion, and Watson told me a couple of years back that one study showed that despite all these taxes the rich were still rich and the poor were still poor, the gap between them actually having widened in recent years. The government paid for that study with the taxes they collect then decided that people should not be allowed to see it, but unfortunately for them 'someone' leaked it to the newspapers.

I still have my friends out there.

This story however showed a rare dark side to that philanthropy, and how it could sometimes be abused. I was always careful with my own money because I knew that there would be many more demands on it oftentimes from people who did not really need help, and that there were sharks out there all too eager to grab more than their share at the expense of those really in need. This is the story of one such shark.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

I had left Anglesey in high spirits following the conclusion to my work there, and spent Christmas in Bangor. I have never had much time for the festive season, and this year I found it more depressing than usual as I was constantly reminded of how much Watson enjoyed it, and how he would inevitably have gone overboard with his decorating our rooms. That in turn always made me wonder what would happen if he ever found a Mrs. Watson and could have his own place to decorate; it would surely have been smothered in Yuletide baubles every December. He might even invite me round.....

I stopped that thought right there.

Over the Christmas season I moved on to visit Aber, Llanfairfechan and Penmaen-mawr, all small would-be resorts in the shadow of the huge mountains of Snowdonia to the south. New Year’s Eve found me in Conway which was possessed of a railway bridge of similar design (and ugliness) to the one over to Anglesey. Watson would have loved the castle here, right by the river, and I spent a pleasant few days touring the tow, also taking a trip down the valley to see the village of Bettws-y-Coed which was quaint in a touristy kind of way. I had received a telegram from Mother asking if I was all right and when I would be returning, and had reluctantly decided that I would have to call in some time this year. Once I had finished with Wales I would spent a couple of weeks in the capital (having first made sure that there were no finished stories lurking anywhere in the metropolis!) then head off again, this time to Scotland.

I briefly called in at Llandudno but the seaside resort seemed to have shut for winter so I resumed the main line and continued past Colwyn Bay (also shut) a little way into Denbighshire until I came to a place called Abergele (pronounced 'abbuh-gelluh', I quickly learned). The name seemed familiar to me from somewhere so I decided to alight and spend some time there. 

My memory had as ever been accurate, if on this occasion unfortunate. Back in 'Sixty-Eight when I had been but thirteen years of age this had been the site of what had then been the most deadly rail accident in the country's history thus far. It had been narrowly surpassed by the Shipton accident in the Christmas after I had first met Watson, and of course pretty much driven from the public consciousness by the calamitous Tay Bridge disaster five years after that in which we ourselves had been tangentially involved (The Adventure Of The Musgrave Ritual).

Railways had always been Watson's thing rather than mine – I viewed trains as being a moderately efficient way of getting me to places where I could practice my craft – but I was curious as having landed at such an infamous place even if now the story was very much a local one, so I went to the library and read up about it. It was as so often a sorry tale of general mismanagement and lax enforcement of the few safety rules there had been at the time; despite the Irish Mail being expected the stationmaster at Llanddulas (the next station along the line towards Conway) had decided to ignore company rules and shunt some wagons, a train of which had broken away and rolled down the line towards the approaching express. There had been no way of warning the train and a head-on collision had resulted with some thirty-four deaths and many injuries, the carnage made worse by the fact that as was common practice at the time the railway company had locked all the carriage doors. That practice was soon after discontinued and the Railway Inspectorate had had some sharp words for the London & North Western Railway about companies who had rule-books that were just for show. And who had also built sidings next to a main line but had somehow 'forgotten' to seek permission to have them there beforehand. 

Sharp but all too accurate, I suspected. I asked the librarian, a charming young lady who smiled most pleasantly at me, if the accident was still mentioned locally.

“Not much”, she said, “particularly with the Milnes.”

Apparently that was supposed to make some sense to me. I just stared at her.

“Master John Milne as he was then”, she said. “He was ten at the time, and I think one of the youngest to survive the accident. His uncle Mr. Sean came down afterwards – he was the boy's guardian, his parents having passed – and they stayed here afterwards.”

I thought that a little odd. Surely the boy would have wished to remove himself from the scene of the accident?

“I remember that the boy was in hospital for some time”, she said, “so his uncle took a house here. We are some way from the station.”

That was true, I had to concede, so perhaps that was why they had stayed. The station was actually in a small coastal village called Pensarn, the town of Abergele being about a mile inland. 

“Do the Milnes still live here?” I asked.

“Mr. Sean bought his cottage from Lord Barlow”, she said. “I think he got it cheap; everyone felt sorry for the boy afterwards.”

That was interesting. I thanked her for her help, silently hoped that whatever was wrong with her eyes was not serious, and left.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Under the guise of finding out as much as I could about the accident 'for research', I spent the next few days gathering as much information about the Milnes as I could. It was very much as I had expected; the village had rallied round after the accident and there had even been a fund in London for the victims of which young John Milne had received a small part. It was all very much as I had expected – and feared.

Unfortunately the disaster had occurred in August so there was no anniversary or anything coming up. I would have to sort something else, so I sent to the ever efficient Miss St. Leger in London (having also made sure to have a large box of jam cream fingers delivered to her offices) and asked certain questions about Master (now Mr.) John Milne and his uncle. I had my answers within a week and it was again much as expected. Mankind seldom failed to disappoint when one thinks the worst of it, I am afraid.

Besides asking me if I had kept the names and addresses of any hunky rugby players (!) Miss St. Leger also suggested a way of bringing matters to a conclusion, so two days later an article appeared in the local newspaper stating that due to an administrative error there were funds remaining in the disaster fund which could only now be distributed. A government official would be arriving from London to talk to the council meeting the following week. I was sure that the prospect of some extra money would flush out my quarry.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

I was again to be proven right. An actor hired by Miss St. Leger explained to the council that the remaining funds could only be shared out by those who had been children at the time of the accident, and I saw the eyes of both Milnes light up in anticipation. They really were an unpleasant pair, the uncle a weedy runt of a fellow about forty-five years of age and clearly careless of his appearance (or more likely wishing to look poor in order to elicit more sympathy) and the mid-twenties nephew a younger carbon copy except with vibrant ginger hair.

My hired actor finished speaking and, as I had know would happen, the clerk of the council invited anyone who wished to have their say. I stood up.

“I am afraid that I must say something at this point”, I said, noting that the second gentleman whom I had hired was moving surreptitiously towards the back of the hall. “One of those who the official records deem eligible to receive this new _largesse_ is a fraud.”

There was a shocked silence. The head of the council finally spoke.

“That is a most serious observation, sir” he said. “Step forward, state your name, then either prove or withdraw it.”

I stepped up to a small lectern, noting as I did that the Milnes were looking decidedly alarmed.

“My name is Mr. Sherlock Holmes”, I said, noting with perhaps a little too much pleasure that the name excited some response; Watson's story of The Resident Patient was being published in the 'Strand' magazine just then. “This morning I asked your clerk if he would kindly add two extra documents to the ones provided for this meeting. Please take a moment to examine document number four.”

There was much shuffling of papers as the seven councillors all read the document in question.

“This cannot be right”, one of them remarked. “The writing is terrible!”

 _Put on your reading glasses, then_ , I thought not at all cattily. Besides, that was the sort of observation that someone else I knew would have made.

“It is a letter from one Mr. William Haversham, currently headmaster at Garrow School in Manchester”, I said. “It states that on August the twentieth, eighteen hundred and sixty-eight when he was deputy headmaster at the same school, he spent the whole day holding summer classes for three boys who had fallen behind in their work. One of those boys was Master John Milne.”

The Milnes were clearly very nervous now. With good cause.

“It was an opportune crime, but a crime nonetheless”, I said. “Mr. Sean Milne had a son, Edgar, and the two were in the area at the time of the disaster. It was easy to fake a few injuries and then have the poor young child who had been rescued from the carnage and who would become the object of sympathy – specifically, _financial_ sympathy – from everyone. By pretending to be his orphan nephew that ‘sympathy’ would of course become even greater. The two villains were able to make a good living off of it, the only slight danger being that people might wonder at the boy staying near the scene of his supposed suffering.”

Mr. Sean Milne shot to his feet.

“This is rot!” he shouted. “Those documents are fakes!”

“I am sure that you can explain how the supposed nephew so badly injured in the disaster managed at the same time to be spending all day in a classroom over a hundred miles away”, I said.

“You paid that teacher to lie!” he protested.

“Why would I?” I asked simply.

I could see that the councillors were torn. It was time to end this.

“I do have one other piece of evidence, sir”, I smiled sweetly. “I rather think that you will find this rather more difficult to challenge, Mr. Milne. Sir, if you please?”

A young gentleman in a heavy coat stood up from the front row of the audience and bowed to the councillors before turning and facing the Milnes. Both their faces dropped like the proverbial stone off a cliff.

“Gentlemen”, I smiled, “allow me to introduce _Mr. John Milne!”_

Mr. Sean Milne took one look at his real nephew and bolted for the door, his fake one close behind him. But when they got there Jeb, the gentleman I had hired against just such a move and who was built like the rugby players I had left behind on Anglesey, blocked their way. Mr, Sean Milne tried to get past him but was very firmly thrown back, hopefully sustaining some real injuries to match the ones that his son had been faking all these years.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

The Milnes were both arrested, and Mr. John Milne (the real one) thanked me sincerely for all I had done.

“I had no idea that my uncle was pulling this dreadful ramp, sir”, he said. “I was horrified when you told me, especially his having Edgar pretending to be me. Thank the Lord that I was a slow learner at school and had to do those extra classes!”

“It was their staying on in Abergele that roused my suspicions, even if the town is some way from the station”, I said. “Any real guardian would have moved their charge elsewhere so that he might forget the trauma, but this was where they got the most sympathy and, of course, lots of charity. I shall be having my lawyers look into making sure that as much as possible is repaid to those whose philanthropy was so abused.”

“Shameful!” he muttered.

We parted, and I made sure to do an interview with the local newspaper which was later reprinted in the 'Times', stating that Mr. John Milne had had no part in this abuse of people's good natures. Sometimes my cases had less than satisfactory endings, but this one was quite acceptable. Or at least for everyone who deserved a happy ending.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Postscriptum: It became even more acceptable when the Milnes were sentenced to a substantial time behind bars for their time, and all their moneys were seized. Mr. Edgar Milne came out first and sank into a life of crime, dying a pauper a few years later. His father did little better, and actually had the audacity to approach the nephew whose name he had traduced for funds. For some strange reason he was refused. How odd!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	11. Case 69: Sheep And The City ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1884\. The last case before Holmes makes a brief return to London, and it is somehow both amusing and deadly. In a city that is really just a village, someone is daring to make fun of the bishop's secretary – can the detective find out who? Come to that, should he find out who?

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

After the exposure of the money-grabbing Milnes in Abergele it was to be but a short step indeed to my next case, although that step involved a number of shuffles (Watson would have loved that phrasing!). St. Asaph lay only some six miles from Abergele but it would take me a couple of weeks to get there as having entered Flintshire I made long stops at Rhyl, the junction for the Elwy Valley branch line and a passable seaside resort that had some life in winter, and then Rhuddlan, a pleasant little market town that appealed to me for no particular reason. I was in no hurry – until I got my brother Carl's telegram. Mother was working on a three-volume spectacular about a slime monster that preyed on badly-behaved college students – 'Breaking Bad' - and when it was ready around the end of March she would want one of her family to hear it. For my own sanity I had to be back in the capital and away again before that happened!

The title of this story? I was sure that when I mentioned it in my next letter to Watson it would elicit one of his greatest ever eye-rolls! Its sheer awfulness was worthy even of him!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Just like St. David's at almost the other end of Wales, this small village was actually a city! St. Asaph (or Llanelwy, as was I presumed its Welsh name) was the seat of a Welsh bishop along with St. David's, Llandaff (near Cardiff) and Bangor, covering the north-eastern part of the Principality (although I knew that I had to be careful with that term as the educated Watson had reminded me that it had two meanings, the mostly western counties which formed the lands of the Prince of Wales and, more recently, all twelve counties† west of the Dyke). There were several signs around the town detailing its history and I soon learned that this area, what was now the counties of Denbighshire and Flintshire, had been the Four Cantrefs, disputed over the centuries between England and Gwynedd until Edward Longshanks sorted matters by ending Welsh independence once and for all. What with my first Welsh case in this trip having been where that king's great rival Llewelyn had met his end, it seemed that I had come full circle.

I had certainly noticed a great deal of difference since I had left the ancient Kingdom of Gwynedd and crossed the Conway River. This area was more densely populated and industrialized, although St. Asaph itself was a haven of tranquillity in its little valley. There could be nothing here to test my detective skills, I felt sure.

I would be thirty later that year, and I can only think that my advance into middle age must have rendered me stupider than usual. Either that or even being within two hundred miles of my mother's stories was having an effect!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

The cathedral in the 'city' was impressive although perhaps not as large as I had been expecting. Inside it was beautiful however, and I felt like I had no cares in the whole wide wo.....

_“Hah, found you at last!”_

I was jerked out of my reverie by the appearance of a fellow in clerical vestments, who was regarding me as if I was Definitely Lowering The Tone In His Cathedral. He was between forty-five and fifty years of age, tall and with iron-grey hair. I had not the slightest idea who he was but he had not made a favourable first impression on me.

 _“You_ are Mr. Sherlock Holmes!”

He sounded frankly incredulous, which was unfair. Since Watson's departure I had made a conscious effort to keep myself more presentable, prompted at least in part that I no longer had him to explain to railway officials why there was seemingly a tramp using a first-class compartment. My hair was the only thing I had been unable to tame as it had a mind of its own, but I was sure that I did not deserve to be either looked down upon or addressed like that. Especially by someone like this person.

“I am, sir”, I said coolly. “How may I be of assistance to you?”

_(I nearly offered to direct him to a bookshop where he could buy a guide to good manners. Watson was still a bad influence on me, if an accurate one in this instance)._

“I _demand_ your help!” the fellow said, his voice somehow becoming even more strident. “I have been the subject of laughter and ridicule in this diocese, and I _demand_ that you make it stop!”

Again I thought of my friend, and his description some years back of the 'man-child', the grown man who has somehow contrived to reach adulthood without ever encountering the word 'no'. I really should send him a postcard from this place; he would be amused at a city this size and perhaps even a little homesick.....

“May I be allowed to know your name, sir?” I said. “That is customary when encountering a _potential_ client?”

As I had known it would, the hint that he might well remain a _potential_ client if he kept this attitude up did not penetrate his thick skull. He squinted at me – from the marks on his nose he was clearly too vain to wear his spectacles all the time – but then decided to press on. With making me dislike him even more.

“My name is Mr. Billet Anderson”, he said, “and I am chief secretary to His Grace the Bishop. These past six months everyone who worships here has been whispering behind my back, saying all sorts of horrible and untrue things about me. It must be stopped!”

The idea of stopping people from gossiping was an interesting one, and maybe one day I might set myself it as the ultimate challenge. But certainly not for this fellow. 

“What sort of things?” I asked. “I must have details _if_ you wish me to investigate matters for you.”

A party of elderly ladies, some bearing baskets of flowers, was passing down the next aisle and taking a definite interest in our conversation (Watson would not have been pleased with the looks that I was getting from more than one of them, which I might also just mention in the letter accompanying that postcard). Mr. Anderson grumbled under his breath and ushered me down our own aisle away from them to where there was a huge ancient font in a corner. A huge, ugly thing (the font as well as my interlocutor).

“The Flower-Arranging Society”, he said sourly. “They are part of this, I am sure.”

“They hardly seem the criminal sort”, I observed mildly. “You will have to give me details of what is being said, sir, or I can do nothing for you.”

He reddened considerably.

“They _claim_ that I have bad breath!”

I looked at him expectantly. As if that would have been enough to explain his attitude.

“That I am cruel to my wife!”

I quirked an eyebrow at him. 

“That I am not generous in my donations to charity.”

I waited. There had to be more, if only from the fact that he was still growing redder.

“And...... and.... that I have a small endowment!”

I stared at him in mock confusion.

“How does a minor financial bequest come into this, sir?” I asked innocently.

He contrived to go even redder.

“Down there!” he hissed, pointing vaguely to the area of his groin.

“You are carrying the papers with you?” I asked, seemingly nonplussed.

“Damnation man, they say I have a small willy!”

I think pretty much the whole cathedral heard that! Watson would have been so proud of me!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

I spent the rest of the day making inquiries into the allegations against Mr. Anderson, and found that they were even more extensive that he had told me, although I really, _really_ hoped that the one concerning the sheep had been made up. Honestly, this fellow had upset just about everyone in the whole 'city'! I did not find a single person, man or woman, boy or girl, with one good word to say about the fellow, and if he was guilty of half the things that he was accused of then I wondered how he had survived in town this long without being sent to meet his ultimate superior. Or more likely Satan!

The one thing that I did find curious, however, was that even in a place as small as this, just how many of the facts and/or stories about this fellow were known to everyone. And I really do mean _everyone_ ; every single person that I asked either told me about the sheep or worse, suggested that there were many _baa'd_ things about the fellow, he was always _bleating_ about something or other, he was _mutton_ Jeff to all complaints, he was often _ram-_ paging about the place or _lamb-_ basting people and, worst of all, _ewe_ know what I mean, sir?'. I had plenty of practice with my expression of complete befuddlement which, I was sure, amused them all greatly. As they would Watson; I took to making a list of these verbal atrocities so I could send it to him.

Look, if I had to suffer them then so did he!

I went back to the cathedral at a time when I knew Mr. Anderson would be attending on his bishop, and sought some peace and quiet there while I mulled over what to do. I had no wish to try to stop the gossip; this fellow was so unpleasant that he deserved it and more. I had also dispatched to Miss St. Leger, who I was perhaps using rather too much lately (yes, I remembered the jam cream fingers) and asked her about the fellow's past, so that at least I could be sure what was true and what was not (all right I admit it; wanted to know about those damn sheep even if part of me really did not want to know!). I knelt down in the pew and sighed as I thought.

I stared incredulously. Apparently the Good Lord had decided to drop me a hint…..

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Miss St. Leger's report came back as prompt as always and, incredibly, contrived to make my opinion of my client sink even lower. In the unlikely event that I had been even remotely disposed towards him, this would have stopped that. He was disgusting in almost every way!

Almost every way.

Fortunately among the stories that were true was one that gave me the inspiration as to just how to deal with this pest, and although it might take a little while it would be worth it in the end.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Mr. Joshua Hughes, better known as the Bishop of St. Asaph, was seventy-six years old. And the way he looked at me when he intercepted me in his cathedral the following week made me feel like a naughty schoolboy caught doing something that he should not have been.

“Mr. Holmes”, the white-haired fellow said pointedly, “I seem to have lost a chief secretary.”

 _“Really?”_ I said, feigning mock surprise. “How did that happen, pray?”

He looked at me even more sharply.

“A rumour has gone round the parish that Mr. Anderson had been sleeping with Mrs. Trott, the wife of the war-hero Colonel Trott”, he said. 

_Is_ it just a rumour?” I challenged.

His face reddened.

“She has confirmed it”, he conceded, “and my secretary's departure followed soon after. Two hours after to be precise; the colonel was as one might imagine not best pleased. This ‘occurrence’ seems to have miraculously coincided with _your_ passing through this diocese.”

I smiled innocently.

“Coincidences do happen, sir”, I said.

He shook his head at me.

“Really, Mr. Holmes!” he said. _“On a hassock of all places!”_

It was my turn to blush. That had been how news of Mr. Anderson's misdeeds had been spread so effectively around the 'city'; the local ladies had simply embroidered pictures denoting them and, very cleverly, only used Welsh as Mr. Anderson did not speak the language. I had done exactly the same to illustrate his cuckolding of Colonel Trott who, some time in the near future, might accidentally be slipped details of the villain's latest hideout. Because that sort of thing did happen. That was the near future as in about ten minutes from now.

“I did not tell a lie”, I said.

“You are an interesting gentleman, sir”, he said. “You have cost me the services of an efficient secretary, but I suppose given his character that may have been a good thing. You are sure about his actions?”

“Definitely”, I said. “My sources in London told me which stories about him were true, which were not, and even which had yet to emerge.”

He thought for a moment, then clearly braced himself.

“I am an old man”, he said at last, “and much as it might pain me to know, I have to ask.” He took another deep breath before almost whispering, _”the sheep?”_

I could not but laugh, inappropriate as it was.

“That, sir, was about the only story that was _not_ true!” 

He raised his hands to the heavens, then brought them together in prayer.

“Praise the Lord!”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Postscriptum: Colonel Trott was duly notified of the address that he was seeking before I and the bishop parted, and the irate old soldier stormed round to confront his cuckolder who had fled to a nearby village. Mr. Anderson was fortunate enough to see him approaching out of a window and fled through the back door, narrowly avoiding his pursuer who fired at him but was just out of range. The pest eventually made it to the docks at Liverpool where he secured a passage on a ship leaving the next morning. It was just his bad luck that the lady following him wired news of where he was staying to the colonel, who once more set off in pursuit.

The old soldier did not miss a second time. His aim was low – _and deadly!_

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

_Notes:_   
_† Not including the English county of Monmouthshire, which was 'transferred' to Wales prior to the 1979 devolution vote to reduce the Nationalists' chances of success._

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


End file.
